City of Secrets (2 page)

Matt knew this upper-sixth boy by sight and was sure he was doing Arts rather than Sciences, but the two girls were listening to him as if he were Al Gore.

‘Well, I think we should get the school to buy us an urn,' said the stripey-haired girl. ‘Then there would be only one lot of boiling water and one lot of energy.'

Ayesha came in then with a large fridge box under her arm. ‘Birthday present, part one,' she said, opening the box. A wonderful waft of freshly-baked chocolate cake rose from it.

‘Brownies!' said Matt and suddenly he became very popular indeed.

The Palazzo del Montone had once been an inn, with a ram's skull hung outside it to proclaim its name. But it was unusually big for an inn and, not so unusually, very popular with students in the city. So, as the University got itself established, more and more teachers drifted towards giving informal lessons there. That was more than a hundred years ago and the city had long since bought the inn and all the buildings in its block and turned them into the main part of the University. But it was still known informally as the Ram.

It made Luciano feel at home, remembering the time he had spent in the Twelfth of the Ram in Remora. And a winged ram was the emblem of his new home city of Bellezza. These days the university building had a sculpture of a ram's head outside with magnificently curled stone horns. Luciano ran up the stairs in the colonnaded great court two at a time but it was all right; Professor Constantin had not started his lecture.

The Professor was standing, talking to a couple of other students, and Luciano took time to look at him. He was totally unlike any other Stravagante he had met. No one would mistake him for anything other than he was supposed to be, a middle-aged university professor, with a neat grey beard. But Rodolfo had said that Constantin was one of their number, a powerful natural philosopher who had travelled to Luciano's own world.

Rhetoric wasn't as dry a subject as Luciano had feared. Professor Constantin had explained it was about the art of persuasion, of arguing a case in such a way as to make your audience agree with you, whether in reality you believed it or not. He set them topics to work on and then they had to persuade their fellow students to accept their viewpoint. Luciano's subject was to be ‘When is it right to kill a man?' and he was looking forward to it.

Ayesha wouldn't walk home with Matt, saying she had to get changed for the family meal in the Chinese restaurant.

‘But that's hours away,' he protested.

‘I've got to look specially nice for your birthday dinner' was all she would say.

So he was dawdling along wondering what to do with himself. He should have been hurrying home to get his work done before the meal but there was nothing that couldn't wait and he rebelled at the idea of doing homework on his birthday; it had been bad enough being cooped up in school all day. He wished he'd had rugby practice or something else physical to do.

It was a fine sunny day, bright and cold with a blustery wind that made Matt think of Brighton. He remembered Eva's card and reluctantly dragged it out of his bag. He had been right – another book token. Matt found himself standing outside an antiques shop; it had some dusty old books in the window among all the candle-snuffers, silver mustard pots and china dogs and, on impulse, he pushed open the door and went in, having a vague idea that if he could get the shopkeeper to take the token, he might be able to buy a dagger or something.

The last thing he expected to see inside the shop was any other students from Barnsbury; it wasn't a typical teenage hang-out. But there, chatting away with the owner as if she'd known him all her life, was the stripey-haired girl with the thing about saving the planet. And the school's fencing champion, Nick Duke.

The whole school knew they were an item, even though Nick was almost two years younger than his girlfriend. He didn't look it though, since he was almost as tall as Matt and well-muscled. He didn't have a rugby-player's build like Matt but was wirier, like the fencer he was. Matt remembered the girl's name now – Georgia something. She was sporty too, he thought, a keen horse-rider. They were the sort of people he could have been friends with but it hadn't happened, because one was in the year below him and the other in the year above.

The girl didn't look friendly now though. She was frowning at Matt, as if he had no right to be there. But the old man behind the desk was perfectly polite.

‘Can I help you, young man?' he asked.

‘Er,' said Matt. ‘I was wondering if you take book tokens.' He waved Eva's card at the man.

There was a contemptuous snort from the girl.

‘Of course he doesn't,' said Georgia. ‘This is an antiques shop not a bookshop.'

‘But I saw some books in the window,' objected Matt.

‘He's quite right, Georgia,' said the old man. ‘I certainly do sell books – old ones at least, but it's only the big shops that are part of the book tokens scheme. Was there a particular book you were looking for?'

If the others hadn't been there, Matt might have admitted to this friendly man that he wasn't really looking for a book at all, but he just mumbled something vague and saw out of the corner of his eye that Nick was whispering something to his stroppy girlfriend.

‘Is it OK if I look round?' Matt asked, wishing he had never come into the shop.

‘Of course,' said the owner. ‘Take your time – and just let me know if you need any help.'

‘Hi,' said Nick. ‘You go to Barnsbury, don't you?'

Matt nodded. ‘Yeah. Just started in the sixth form. Matt Wood.'

Now the girl came closer and said, ‘Hi, I'm Georgia. You're the guy with the brownies, aren't you?'

‘It's my birthday,' said Matt. ‘My girlfriend made them.'

‘Lucky you,' said Nick.

‘Oh it's your birthday,' said the owner. ‘Many happy returns. That explains the book token. And if we're doing introductions, I'm Mortimer Goldsmith. But call me Mortimer – Georgia and Nick always do. Now, I think I've got some chocolate biscuits somewhere. We should celebrate.'

He bustled off to the back of the shop and Matt relaxed a bit. Maybe Georgia wasn't as hostile as he thought. And she seemed very matey with this Mortimer.

‘I didn't really want to buy a book,' he admitted.

‘Not really your thing?' asked Nick.

‘I'd rather have something like this,' said Matt, drawing out a rusty old sword from an umbrella stand.

‘You like weapons,' said Nick. ‘Ever thought of fencing?'

Matt shook his head. ‘I don't think I'd be quick enough. Not built for it.'

‘Put the sword away,' said Georgia quietly. ‘You wouldn't want it if you'd seen what they can do.'

Matt was surprised but returned the old sword to its place. Maybe she was talking about fencing accidents. He was rummaging through boxes of odds and ends when Mortimer Goldsmith returned with a laden tray.

‘I brought tea for everyone,' he said. ‘I hope you don't mind, Matthew, but Nick and Georgia generally have a cup when they drop in.'

Matt wondered again how come the school fencing champion and a horsey eco-warrior were such pals with the old antiques shop owner; maybe he was the grandfather of one of them?

He put back the broken pocket watch he had been fiddling with and then found, to his surprise that he was holding a book after all. Not a modern paperback and not anything he could imagine exchanging a book token for. It was small and bound in brown leather with thin brown strips of leather wound around it to hold it shut. Matt wondered if it was blank inside, like the old-fashioned sketchbooks he'd seen when Jan took them to a Leonardo da Vinci exhibition. They were on sale in the exhibition shop, with thick creamy cartridge paper inside with rough edges; Harry had wanted to buy one but they were too expensive.

The book was still in his hand as he took a mug of tea and a chocolate Hobnob. It was awkward but somehow he didn't want to put it down. As soon as he was able to open it, he saw that this one wasn't blank at all; it was densely printed in old-fashioned heavy black type. The words meant nothing to him – Matt was used to that – but, curiously, the little book attracted him. He was suddenly sure that this was what he wanted to buy. He looked up and saw that both Nick and Georgia were staring intently at him.

Alfredo seemed agitated when Luciano got back home.

‘There's someone here to see you,' he said. ‘I couldn't get rid of him and he wouldn't give a name. He says he brings a message from Bellezza – otherwise I wouldn't have let him in at all. But what shall I do? Is it safe to let him see you? Suppose he's really from Giglia?'

‘Let's not suppose anything till I've spoken to him,' said Luciano. ‘If he does indeed come from Bellezza, he will be most welcome. Bring him out into the garden and fetch us some wine.'

When Alfredo brought their unexpected visitor through, Luciano knew straight away that this was no stranger.

The young man was little more than a boy of about his own age, tall and slender, wearing humble peasant clothes. A cap was pulled down over his eyes but his demeanour was not humble; in fact he had quite a noble bearing. Something about him made Luciano think of the first time he had stravagated to Bellezza.

There was an easy grace in the way the visitor accepted the seat he was offered which told Luciano the truth. Then the stranger pulled off the cap and a cascade of brown curls tumbled down.

‘Happy birthday!' said Luciano, to Alfredo's amazement.

Chapter 2

In the Scriptorium

The Golden Dragon was the best Chinese restaurant in Matt's part of Islington. He knew the menu by heart from many family celebrations, so its dense type held no fears for him; he just took a cursory glance then ordered what he always had.

Ayesha was looking spectacular in a purple strappy top embroidered with sequins. Her glossy hair hung loose over her shoulders and Matt felt his throat tighten at the sight of her. Their table was a bit boisterous; Andy had ordered champagne. Even Harry had a small glass.

Jan gave Matt an envelope, which held a receipt for twenty driving lessons and the cardboard cut-out of a car key. On it was written in big black letters: I. O. U. 1 CAR.

‘When you pass your test,' said Andy.

‘Or on your eighteenth birthday,' added Jan. ‘Whichever comes sooner.'

It was what Matt had wanted most. He was a bit nervous of the theory test but he was sure he could pass the practical. And then he would have a freedom he longed for. Street signs weren't hard to read and he would be equal to anyone else on the road.

‘Thanks,' he said. ‘That's fantastic.' And he even put up with Jan kissing him, right there in public. Ayesha smiled at his embarrassment.

In fact the evening would have been perfect if it hadn't been for two things. The first was that he still had the book he'd bought from Mortimer Goldsmith in his pocket. The old man had taken the book token after all, under a bit of pressure from Georgia. ‘You can use it to buy a book on antiques,' she said. And Matt had left, having spent twenty quid on a book he couldn't read, couldn't have read even if he hadn't been dyslexic; it was in a foreign language, probably Latin.

The book fascinated him and – what was more peculiar – it seemed to intrigue Georgia and Nick as well. They hadn't taken their eyes off him once he picked it up in the old man's shop and he had an uneasy feeling that they were expecting something to happen to him because of it.

But the oddness of the book and the greater oddness of his attraction to it was the lesser of Matt's two distractions from his birthday meal. The bigger fly in the ointment was Jago Jones.

Jago was simply the person Matt hated most in the world – and by a huge stroke of bad luck he was in the Golden Dragon with a group of friends that night. Matt didn't know what they were celebrating and he didn't care; it was just a blot on the landscape that he was in the same room.

Jago was in the upper sixth and was the school's best English student. He was the editor of the magazine, star of every play put on in the last four years – he had even had
poems
published. In real magazines that paid money for them. If there was anyone Matt knew who was more of a words and language person than his mother, it was Jago.

And to add fuel to Matt's hatred, Jago used to go out with Ayesha. It had been the year before and she swore that she had dumped him, rather than the other way round but Matt didn't feel entirely secure about it. And as well as being word-smart, Jago was ridiculously good-looking in a blond, Jude Law sort of way. He and Ayesha had made a stunning couple, one that Matt had admired from afar, never dreaming that one day she would prefer him.

Jago had another girlfriend now – Lucy – who was in his year. She was sitting with him in the Golden Dragon but to Matt's sensitive eye it wasn't stopping him from casting admiring looks at Ayesha. Matt felt a sort of tight band round his chest constricting him and making it hard to swallow his Peking duck. Suppose Jago wanted to get back with Ayesha? Why would she prefer to be with a dumbo like him?

Perhaps it had been Jago who dumped her and perhaps he was regretting it now? Lucy was OK but she wasn't a beauty like Ayesha. And Jago must have known what a lovely person Ayesha was too. But then why would he have dumped her? Thoughts like these were running through Matt's head all evening and it was only with a huge effort that he managed to stop them spoiling his celebration.

The expression on Alfredo's face was a mixture of puzzled and appalled.

‘Your Grace,' he said, making a deep bow. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't know . . .'

‘No one does, Alfredo,' said Arianna, shaking her hair. ‘I'm in disguise.'

‘You're crazy,' said Luciano.

‘I think that's treason,' said Arianna. ‘Even from a fiancé. Oh do stand up straight, Alfredo. I am not the Duchessa today.'

She stretched her arms and stuck her long legs in their coarse breeches out straight in front of her. ‘It feels good,' she said. ‘I feel like the old Arianna of the Islands.'

It was true, in her boy's clothes, she did look more like the wild girl Luciano had met in the Piazza della Maddalena more than two years ago.

‘But what about Rodolfo and Silvia?' asked Luciano. ‘I can't believe they let you come here on your birthday. And what about your bodyguard?'

Arianna shrugged.

‘They don't know,' she said carelessly. ‘And I didn't bring a guard – only Marco, my maid's betrothed. He's hanging about outside somewhere. Perhaps you'd let him in and give him something to eat, Alfredo?'

‘Yes and bring us something too,' said Luciano. ‘I was so surprised to see you I forgot my duties as a host.'

‘But not host to a duchessa, please,' said Arianna. ‘Just a peasant boy from Torrone. You can call me Adamo when I'm in disguise.'

‘And when I kiss you?' said Luciano, taking her in his arms.

‘Then you don't need to call me anything at all,' said Arianna, narrowing her violet eyes.

Matt's parents dropped Ayesha off at her parents' house on the way home. It was a school day tomorrow so she wouldn't be staying over. For the same reason, Matt wasn't late to bed but once there sleep eluded him. He lay awake for what felt like hours, thinking about Ayesha and Jago. All his thoughts and fears boiled down to one thing: he didn't deserve Ayesha so one day he would lose her. And the thought that it might be to Jago twisted like a knife in his guts.

He must have slept eventually because it was about 5.30 a.m. when he woke suddenly. He got up and went to the bathroom, then down to the kitchen for a glass of water. On his way back to bed, he stopped and took the old book out of his jacket pocket. By the light of his bedside lamp he tried again to decipher some of the words. The letters were in the normal alphabet so it wasn't Greek or Russian or Arabic, but it might as well have been.

Matt would have liked to be good at languages. His family often had holidays in France and he could imitate what he heard around him quite well. But he had no idea how anything was spelt and he couldn't recognise any of it when it was written down. So he had given up French at school as soon as he could. Maths and ICT were much easier for him.

He wondered for the umpteenth time why he had wasted his birthday money on the incomprehensible little book. And then he started to wonder what it would be like if he could understand it, what it would be like to be a scholar who understood many languages, living and dead. Perhaps if he were that clever, he would feel as good as Jago and worthy of the beautiful Ayesha.

Matt felt drowsiness creeping over him. He wound the leather straps round the book and tied them but before he could put it down sleep overcame him and he felt himself falling into a swirling vortex of words and ideas.

When Matt woke up, he had no idea where he was. It was a large but musty-smelling room as big as his school assembly hall and full of machines of some sort. At first he thought he was the only person in the room, but gradually, as his eyes adjusted to the dancing motes of dust in the weak rays of sunshine coming from the high windows, he saw some men working on the machines furthest away from him, near the big wooden doors at the far end of the room.

They seemed to be talking to each other and gesturing with their hands but he couldn't tell what they were saying for the noise of the machines, which was a sort of loud creaking, like wood on an old-fashioned sailing ship.

What a peculiar dream, thought Matt. He was used to dreams where you think you have woken up and then discover that's just another part of the dream.

The machine nearest to him was silent, as if waiting for someone to come and operate it. Beside it Matt saw a shallow box on a stand, with divisions inside it containing bits of metal, neatly arranged. He picked one up and examined it. It was small but heavy – a bit of lead, he thought. There was a raised letter ‘b' on it or maybe a ‘d'. Matt had a lot of trouble with letters that looked the same but turned into other letters if you reversed them.

He must have spoken out loud in his dream, because a voice said over his shoulder ‘It's a “d”.' Matt jumped and saw that a man had come up silently behind him. He was middle-aged with a neat grey beard. But what was odd about him was his clothes – they were old-fashioned, made of velvet and lace, like in a Shakespeare play or an old oil painting. And he wore a flowing scholar's gown on top.

‘Do you know what it is?' said the man, taking the metal letter out of Matt's hand. ‘It's a bit of movable type. The letter looks like a “b” because it's back to front – like an image in a mirror. When it's inked and pressed on to paper, it will give you a “d” though.' He spoke with an accent Matt couldn't quite place.

He put the letter back in the box. ‘I'm Professor Constantin,' the man said. ‘What's your name?'

Matt realised he'd never had a dream in which anyone asked him his name before, even as he said, ‘Matt Wood.'