The Hero's Tomb (9 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Three mahogany tables stretched the length of a massive, candle-lit dining hall, towards a raised dais where the oldest, most decrepit and most magical magicians sat in high-backed chairs.

The others crowded onto benches, draped in their oil-black gowns, gossiping, arguing about spells and stuffing their faces. There was an enormous haunch of roast venison in a rich, sticky onion sauce. Octopus fried with garlic. Lampreys in honey.

Tabitha couldn’t enjoy any of it.

She sighed and watched morosely as the Bootle brothers demolished plate after plate. Ty perched on the edge of a gravy boat, barely even touching his
sugar lump, mesmerized by the spectacle of the trolls gorging themselves. Beyond, Hal was nibbling at a bread roll, most of his food as untouched as Tabitha’s. He looked awful – as though he were getting paler and more exhausted every hour they spent in Azurmouth.

The afternoon had dragged on for ever. Tabitha had spent it practising with her throwing knives in an empty courtyard and trying to think up new ways to find Joseph. If she could track down that griffin salesman she’d make him talk, whether he liked it or not … But first she would have to leave the Academy, which Newton had strictly forbidden. Right before he had disappeared himself with Cyrus Derringer.

In the end, the only thing to do was wait for Ty to return. When he finally did, it was another disappointment. He’d been pelted with rotten apples, almost been caught in a fairy-catcher’s net on several occasions, and had found no trace of Joseph anywhere.

Tabitha pushed the food around her plate one last time, before finally giving up and dropping her fork. She needed to talk to someone, or she’d go mad. Opposite, Master Gurney was staring vacantly as he chewed.

‘Thinking about your chicken?’ she asked.

‘What? Delicious! Yes, indeed,’ said the magician, startled out of his trance. ‘The mushroom sauce. A sheer delight.’

‘No, I mean – the one you were trying to turn into—’

‘An egg! Yes indeed, well remembered, young lady. You’ll go far. Yes.’

‘So did it work?’

The magician frowned. ‘Not exactly. Transformation is an extremely slippery area of magic, my dear.’

Tabitha was already starting to regret this conversation. But the magician carried on, oblivious.

‘Shapeshifting is my chief interest, you see. An extraordinary natural instance of transformation. And particularly fascinating on account of the frequent size differential involved.’

‘Size differ— what?’

‘To turn an egg into a chicken is a challenge, you see. But to turn an egg into a man. Or into a castle. That would require a far greater magical effort. Do you see?’

‘I s’pose so.’

‘A bear shapeshifter ought, in theory, to find the transformation easier than an ant shapeshifter. But we don’t know yet whether that is the case. Yes, and there are other peculiar aspects of shapeshifting. Did you
know, for example, that a shapeshifter can only ever take human and animal forms? Where are the troll shapeshifters? Or the dwarves, or the imps?’

‘I didn’t know that.’ To her surprise, Tabitha was actually starting to become a little bit interested. She began tucking into her venison again. ‘I saw a shapeshifter once. Not long ago, actually, back in Port Fayt. He was a thief. A cat with ginger fur.’

Master Gurney sighed and his eyes glazed over, as though in a happy daydream. ‘How I should love to see a real shapeshifter …’

Tabitha wrinkled her nose. ‘You’ve not even— But isn’t that what you’re studying?’

‘Well, yes indeed my dear, but shapeshifters don’t just grow on trees, you know. Unless, I suppose, they were a
squirrel
shapeshifter!’ Master Gurney chuckled at his joke, spraying crumbs across the table. ‘They’re rather rare in Azurmouth, and they keep themselves to themselves. I do keep records of sightings, however. The Academy pays half a ducat for any decent report of an incident involving a shapeshifter. Sadly, many of them are too absurd to be believed.’ He began to chortle again. ‘Why, just this afternoon I heard an extraordinary tale of a sighting near Cockle Alley. It was a poor old lady who’d rather lost her mind, I fear. She claimed she’d seen a dappled grey horse trotting
down the lane at night with a goblin boy slung over its back. Then it went into a wig shop, bold as brass, and a few moments later a grey-haired man came out to lock the door. She said he had a horse’s eyes. A horse’s eyes, indeed! I honestly can’t—’

‘A goblin boy,’ said Tabitha. ‘Is that what you said?’ Her venison-laden fork was frozen halfway to her mouth.

Master Gurney looked disappointed, as though she had missed the point of his story. ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘Or was it … No, you’re quite right, it was a mongrel! Half human, half goblin. Would you believe it?’

Tabitha shot up from her seat, startling several elderly half-asleep magicians into wakefulness.

‘Tabs?’ said Frank, looking up from the lobster pie he was munching on. ‘What’s bit you?’

‘We need to go. We need to go now.’

‘But—’ said Paddy, gesturing at the spread of food in front of them.

‘We’ve been over this, Tabs,’ said Frank, setting down his pie. ‘Newt told us to stay put, remember?’

Tabitha turned to Master Gurney. ‘How long ago?’

‘How … er …’

‘How long ago was this sighting?’

The master looked utterly confused. ‘Well, let me see, it would have been … yesterday.’

Tabitha’s heart jolted.
Yesterday!
That meant it was a lead. A good, solid lead.

‘I know where Joseph is,’ she said. ‘Well, I know where he
was
. Yesterday.’

‘Goodness!’ said Master Gurney. ‘Do you mean to say your friend is a mongrel boy?’

‘I’m still not sure about this,’ said Paddy. ‘Newton said we—’

‘I don’t care what he said,’ snapped Tabitha. ‘He’s out there right now, and he won’t even tell us where he’s gone! It’s like he’s not thinking straight. Don’t you think he’s been acting a little funny lately?’

Paddy looked uncomfortable. ‘Maybe so, but—’

‘Besides, who knows what kind of danger Joseph could have got himself into? So I’m going to find him, whether you like it or not.’

Hal rose. The colour had returned to his cheeks, and behind his spectacles his eyes were shining with determination. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you’re not going alone.’

Chapter Fifteen

The body left a smear of blood as they dragged it away, a red trail that glistened in the flickering torchlight. Newton shifted uncomfortably on his wooden bench, trying to ignore the savage roar of the spectators that surged up all around him.

The courtyard of the House of Light was even more crowded now than it had been earlier in the day, and in the darkness the sweating, heaving mass of citizens had turned feral, fired up with cheap grog, outrageous bets and the spectacle of violence. A line of whitecoats stood guard around the wooden fighting platform, handing out blows with their muskets when things got too rowdy.

Still, Newton half wished he was down there among the crowd. Up on the tiered wooden seating of the trainers’ enclosure he felt horribly exposed, and he was starting to worry that he’d made a mistake. Of course Derringer was an excellent swordsman. He could beat Lucky Leo, then claim his opponent’s sword as a prize.

That was the easy part.

Newton’s fingers reached under his cloak and curled around the three wooden sections of the Banshee – his weapon. The Duke of Garran wasn’t just going to let them walk out of here with the Sword of Corin. So as soon as the fight was won, he would have to wade in, get Derringer off the platform and into the crowd. If they could lose themselves in the throng, maybe they could make it out of here alive.

Maybe.

The crowd was getting louder, impatient for the next fight. Servants were scrubbing at the platform, trying to clean off the blood, whilst the victorious Champion of the Broken Crown strutted for his friends. Behind the warm glow of the torches, the façade of the House of Light seemed to glow, ghostly pale.
Let the sky have its sun. Azurmouth has the House of Light
. But at this hour it seemed more like the moon against the twilight sky.

Newton looked up, drawing his hood further over his face, glad of the chill in the air that gave him an excuse to wear it. There, leaning on the balustrade, surrounded by the other lords of the League was the Duke of Garran. Newton couldn’t make out his expression at this distance, but his posture was relaxed.

How can he be so calm?
This next fight was the one they had surely both been waiting for. Lucky Leo’s first of the evening.
And, hopefully, his last.

‘The next duel!’ announced the herald. His voice was already hoarse from shouting over the crowd. ‘To my left, the defending Champion of the Contest of Blades, Leopold of Brindenheim …’

Lucky Leo stepped from the shadows onto the torchlit platform, arms raised to acknowledge the roar of his admirers. His smug face was lit up with happiness, as though he couldn’t wait to get stuck into the fighting. He drew the Sword of Corin with a flourish. The blade glittered, looking every inch the legendary weapon that it was. Newton couldn’t imagine how many trolls’ heads that blade had severed; how many goblins it had killed; how many widows it had made.

He realized he was rubbing at the marks on his wrists again.

‘To my right, the Champion of the Silver Dragon,’ barked the herald, ‘Cyrus Derringer!’

The elf stepped forward and whisked off his hat to reveal his pointed ears. Newton cursed under his breath, as a murmur ran through the crowd. Derringer had promised to keep his disguise on. After the fight at the Fencing House of the Silver Dragon it was hardly a secret that he was an elf, but if he’d just been discreet, the lords of the League might have overlooked it. Now, if they lost, death was almost a certainty.

Not that Derringer cared. He was grinning at the crowd, looking every bit as smug as his opponent.

Newton rose, taking care to keep his head down so the men on the balcony didn’t see his face. The trainers were allowed to have a word with their fighters before the duel, and on the opposite side of the platform the Earl of Brindenheim already had an arm round his son, murmuring in his ear.

Thalin knew why he bothered – from what Newton had heard, Leo couldn’t fight his way out of a paper castle. But the threatening presence of his father was probably enough to scare most opponents into throwing the fight.

‘I’d like to carve him up,’ said Derringer, as Newton reached the platform. The elf’s eyes gleamed in the
light of the torch fires. Newton had never seen him so alive.

‘No. The sword’s all we need. We had a deal, remember?’

‘He needs to be taught a lesson.’

Newton just stopped himself grinding his teeth. ‘Maybe you need to be taught a lesson yourself. If you hurt him there’s no way we’ll walk out of here alive. His father will murder us on the spot. That’s if the Duke of Garran doesn’t get us first.’

A scowl passed across Derringer’s face for an instant before he shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

Newton could hardly believe it. Was Derringer actually agreeing with him?

Better late than never.

‘Gentlemen! To your places.’

There was a tense hush as Newton returned to his bench, and the two fighters took up position on opposite sides of the platform. Their blades hovered in the air, twin ribbons of fire in the orange glow of the torches.

Newton leaned forward, holding his breath. He could feel the spectators around him doing the same. In the courtyard. On the benches. At the balcony above.

‘Let the fight begin!’

Lucky Leo darted forwards, lunging with all his weight. A ridiculous move. The kind of move that would instantly get you cut down in a real battle. Derringer simply stepped aside, not even bothering to raise his sword. There were titters from the crowd. The Earl of Brindenheim scowled, and for a moment Newton thought he might lurch out of his seat and throttle the elf.

No, Cyrus. Please, no
. They couldn’t afford to humiliate this idiot, however much he deserved it. Newton risked a glance upwards at the Duke of Garran. The other men on the balcony were still laughing, joking and sipping from wine glasses, while the Duke stood silent and still, watching, giving nothing away.

Down on the platform, Lucky Leo scowled and staggered upright, rearranging his grip on the hilt.
Probably the worst swordsman ever to handle that blade.

Newton caught Derringer’s eye and mouthed at him.
Make it last
. They’d been over this several times. It needed to seem like a real fight, so Lucky Leo could keep as much dignity as possible when he lost. Derringer gritted his teeth, but nodded. His next attack was a wide, slashing move. Nowhere near his best.
Perfect
. The first clatter of steel rang out as Leo deflected it.

That seemed to break the spell of silence on the crowd. They began to cheer, to talk amongst themselves, to shout out warnings and encouragement. The fighters moved around the platform, blades flashing as they fought.

Within less than a minute, Leo was tiring. Newton could see it in his podgy red face, glistening with sweat, and in the way he moved – cautious, plodding steps as he looked in vain for an opening. Derringer’s lip curled in a sneer. If he was trying to hide his contempt, he wasn’t trying hard enough. He began to bounce on his feet, showing off how much energy he had left.

Newton looked up again, and froze. The lords of the League were still there, drinking and laughing. But the Duke of Garran was gone. His skin prickled, and he glanced around the seating. Where was the Duke? And what in Thalin’s name would make him stop watching the fight?

A surge of noise came from the crowd, and Newton’s attention was drawn back to the platform. Derringer had made his move. A feint to the right, drawing Leo’s eyes away from his own sword. And in the same instant, one, two steps in, close as sweethearts, and a twist of Leo’s arm.

Lucky Leo yelped like a child as his blade flashed,
and then the blade was no longer his, and Derringer stepped away, both swords pointed at his opponent’s face, his own plastered with a grin that made Newton feel sick.

And suddenly there was a third figure on the fighting platform, streaking like a bolt of lightning from the shadows beside the wooden stands. A figure dressed in white.

The Duke?

No. Someone slimmer, taller, her long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Moving so fast it might almost have been magic.
Knowing her, it might well be.

There was a whistle of sharp metal moving fast, a wet
thunk
, and Derringer howled. Blood spattered the wooden platform as the elf’s two swords clattered away. Lucky Leo backed off, face pale, as Derringer staggered, clutching his hand. Standing in between them was the figure in white, poised like a stone seraph. Major Turnbull’s own blade dangled at her side, dripping, and her foot was placed firmly on the Sword of Corin.

Newton stood, fingers working fast, slotting together the three lengths of black lacquered wood that formed the Banshee. He twirled it as he stepped forward, sending panicked trainers scurrying away from him.

Come
on, then.
He’d beaten Turnbull before, and he could beat her again.

A soft click to his left, alarmingly close to his ear.

‘You stay where you are,’ said a quiet voice.

He turned to see the Duke of Garran right beside him, watching him with those cold, colourless eyes and pointing an ornate silver-and-gold-chased pistol at his head.

Newton knew that pistol. He had seen the Duke use it before, on board the
Justice
.

It was the pistol that had killed Old Jon.

Rage flooded through him, burning him up.

‘No,’ said the Duke, still icy calm. ‘I said, stay where you—’

Too late. Newton had shrugged off his cloak and swung the Banshee with all his strength. It wasn’t anything Tori the hobgoblin had taught him.
Control
, the hobgoblin had always said.
Control is everything.
Tori’s moves were precise and focused.

This was anything but.

The Banshee cracked into the Duke’s face with a sound like a hammer driven hard into a slab of meat.

BANG!

The Duke’s pistol flashed as it went off, and the few trainers still on the benches bolted, howling in fright. The baying of the crowd turned frantic, desperate.

It took Newton a few moments to realize that the shot had gone wide, and that he was still alive. The Duke bent over, the pistol dangling limply from one hand, the other held against his face. Time seemed frozen for an instant, until the Duke’s pale eyes found Newton once again, peering between his plump fingers. There was no pain in them. No anger.

He was smiling.

‘Oh dear,’ said the Duke.

Someone barrelled into Newton from behind, two arms like tree trunks grappling him into a crushing embrace. An ogre’s arms – they were much too big and powerful to be a human’s. Newton squirmed to free himself, but it was hopeless. The ogre’s hands found the Banshee, tore it away from him like a mother taking her baby’s rattle. The giant thumbs flexed against the middle of the staff.

‘No,’ growled Newton. ‘Do that and I’ll—’

There was a sharp snap as the Banshee broke in two, and the hands discarded the weapon like two bits of damp firewood.

Newton clamped his teeth together hard to stifle the cry rising in his throat.

The Duke of Garran straightened, still smiling, still watching Newton. His hand came away from his face, and Newton saw a red mark forming on his cheek. A
trickle of blood. The Banshee had glanced off, raking his face but causing no real damage.

‘What in all the Old World is going on?’ roared a voice from the fighting platform, rising above the panicked wails of the crowd. Newton saw that the Earl of Brindenheim had drawn his sword. His whiskers quivered with fury and confusion, as he stepped in front of his cowering son.

Major Turnbull had sheathed her own blade and retrieved the Sword of Corin.

Derringer hovered, his hand still dripping red splashes onto the platform, his eyes flicking from Turnbull to Newton, unsure what to do next.

The Duke of Garran spat out a gobbet of blood and a broken tooth, and dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief. He was examining Newton with amused fascination, like a schoolboy observing an ant through the glass wall of a jar.

An ant he’s about to crush.

‘So you came.’ His voice was thick with blood. ‘All the way from Port Fayt, across the Ebony Ocean, to Azurmouth. How brave. How foolish.’

He waved his pistol, and the arms that held Newton tightly in place shoved him down onto his knees. Looking up, Newton saw the ogre he’d seen on the balcony earlier that day. He was still dressed in League
livery. His shaven head was sheened with sweat, and his eyes were empty of all emotion.

‘I need only give the word, and he will crush your skull,’ said the Duke softly. He dropped the bloodstained handkerchief, letting it flutter to rest on the platform. ‘I will not do it. But rest assured, by the time I am finished with you, Captain Newton, you will wish I had.’