The Angel's Command (29 page)

The old man was forced to resort to wiping his eyes again. “My children, if you could do this, you would earn my eternal gratitude!”

19

MAGUDA RAZAN AND HER FOLLOWERS lived in caves high in the Pyrenees on the Spanish side of the border. Maguda trusted no man and considered the women of the caves to be inferior beings, senseless baggages who lusted after silks and jewellery. Maguda Razan had eyes that held mysterious powers and was feared by those who served her, any of whom she could bend to her will. An awesome array of potions, scents, powders and spells, coupled with her hypnotic gaze, made her absolute ruler of her rocky domain. Widowed in her younger days, she relied on her four brothers for knowledge of the outside world. They were sombre, close-mouthed men and proficient assassins.

Lesser caves and tortuous passages ran into the mountains, all terminating at the main cavern where Maguda held court deep in the heart of her stone world. It was a vast cavern, furnished to strike terror into the very soul of ignorant thieves and impressionable peasants. Silent as the grave, it had the likenesses of many sinister idols carved into the walls: men with the bodies of reptiles and ferocious beasts, women with multiple limbs and cruel staring eyes, each image with a different-coloured fire burning at its base. Sulphurous yellow, blood red, oily black and many other hues of hellfire. Together they created a noxious cloud that hung beneath the cavern ceiling like a pall. Amid a welter of long-dead and stuffed creatures, Maguda Razan sat on a fabulous throne, which was said to have come from the palace of an emir. It was draped in skins of all manner and decorated with beads. Maguda Razan could barely reach its arms with her hands outstretched. She sat like a venomous spider at the centre of a web. Small, and clad in wispy wraps of black, blue and puce, she had hair that stood out from her head in a crown of dyed orange, streaked with steely grey roots. Between the deep-etched lines of her face, dark, cabalistic tattoos overlaid her bloodless skin. But it was the eyes of Maguda Razan that fascinated the onlooker—restless pinpoints of deep light shining out of muddy yellowed pupils, never still, always restlessly searching back and forth like a questing cobra.

 
A man knelt before her, backed by a Razan brother. He was weeping helplessly. Maguda's head never moved as her eyes slanted down toward him. Her voice a sibilant whisper, questioning, probing.

“Why did ye hold back the necklace which was with the loot from Port Vendres? Tell me, Luiz.”

Always keeping his eyes averted from her, Luiz sobbed. “Madame Razan, it was nought but a cheap trinket. I knew my woman liked such things, it was worthless!”

Maguda Razan's voice sounded reasonable. “Worthless or not, it belonged to the Razan. Where is this necklace now?”

One of the brothers held it up. It was indeed a cheap thing: small beads woven on several strands to represent a snake.

One of Maguda's incredibly long-nailed fingers moved, pointing. “Put it on his neck, hold up his head, so I can see him.”

Fastening the necklace on Luiz, the brother seized a handful of the man's hair and pulled his head back. Luiz found himself staring directly into the eyes of Maguda.

Her voice was like a sliver of ice sliding across oiled silk. “Look at me, gaze long at my eyes . . . long . . . long . . . long! I will not hurt thee, Luiz. The snake which ye stole from me is brightly coloured. Did ye know that such snakes are always deadly? Was it not one such snake that took the life of Egypt's queen long long ago? Can ye feel it, thief, pulling its coils tight around thy worthless neck? Seeking out a vein. A place to sink small fangs into . . .”

Both of Maguda's hands rose, fingers curved like claws, her voice rising to a shriek. “Thou art dead! Dead!”

Blood suffused the man's face as he clapped a hand to the side of his throat, gurgled horribly and fell over sideways. His legs kicked convulsively, and his back arched. Then he went limp. Lifeless.

Maguda's voice rang out, flat and callous. “Take yon necklace off him, give it to his woman!”

The brother reached out, then hesitated. Her tone turned to one of contempt. “It won't bite thee, 'tis only a cheap necklace. Take it off!”

Gingerly the brother obeyed. Maguda watched him scathingly. “See his neck, there's not a mark on it. Imagination, 'tis all it was, yon fool died because of his own stupid imagination!”

Her brother took the necklace and slunk off, murmuring under his breath. “Imagination, and those eyes of yours, sister, that's what the man died from!”

Much to his surprise, her voice followed him, echoing around the cavern and its surrounding passages. “Aye, thou art right, brother, but beware, mine ears are as sharp as mine eyes. Nothing escapes Maguda Razan!” He broke into a run, dashing past the eldest of his brothers, who was on his way to see Maguda.

She watched the man enter her cavern, noting the flicker of fear in his eyes as he skirted the spot where the dead thief lay. Her voice halted the eldest brother even before he reached the throne. “Tell me of thy visit to Veron market fair. What news of Comte Bregon? Think hard and speak true, Rawth!”

The eldest brother of the Razan, Rawth, made his report. “I never saw the old man, they say he never leaves the house.”

Maguda let out a hiss of exasperation. “I know that, but did any come or go from there, new faces, strangers?”

Rawth shook his head. “Only some young 'uns, who were arrested for not paying their toll and for unlicenced trading.”

Maguda's fingernails rattled as she smote the throne arm. “Tell me of them! Didst thou not hear me say I want to hear all?”

Rawth had not heard his sister say any such thing, but he was not prepared to argue—he had seen what happened to any who contradicted Maguda. “I saw three of them being led off by the guards. They are probably in the dungeons now. Two of them were boys, one about fourteen summers, light-haired, blue-eyed, the other about the same age, handsome, Spanish-looking. The girl looked older than the boys, but not by much—she was of gypsy blood, I think. A pleasant singer she was, I heard her sing. She was on the house steps, drumming up trade for the Spanish boy to make likenesses of folk.”

He stood silent as Maguda mused aloud. “A facemaker, eh? What of the other boy, the blue-eyed one?”

Rawth shrugged. “Oh, him, he did little but stand around with his dog—”

Maguda interrupted her brother. “Dog? Ye said nothing of a dog. What manner of animal was it, tell me!”

Rawth described Ned. “Of the breed they call Labrador. A big creature, black 'twas. Why do ye ask?”

She silenced him with a wave of her hand. “A black dog, that could be an omen. Send watchers to wait outside the wall of Veron until these young ones are released. I need to know more about them, which direction they go in. Leave me now, I need to be alone, to think.”

When Rawth had departed, Maguda took up a staff and rose from her throne. Leaning heavily on the staff, she visited each of the stone idols around the cavern's edge, throwing coloured incense upon the fires at the feet of the statues and muttering to herself as the smoke billowed up to thicken beneath the high ceiling. After a while she went back to the throne. Using a human skull on the seat beside her as a centrepiece, Maguda Razan cast bones, pebbles and striped stone fragments over the grisly crown of the skull. Watching which way they fell, she chanted in a high, singsong voice,

 
She sat awhile, contemplating the skull and its surrounding jumble of rocks and bone, her eyes closed, swaying slightly. Then Maguda Razan emitted a low moan, building up into a shriek like that of a stricken animal. It echoed round the bowels of the mountain and its caves, bringing Razan tribal members, both male and female. They halted at the cavern entrance, watching fearfully as Maguda arose from the steps where she had fallen from her throne. There was vexation and rage in her voice as she screeched at them.

“Go, all of ye! Seek out those who were imprisoned at Veron. Capture them, the two boys, one dark, one fair, the girl and the black dog. Bring them back here to me, I command ye!”

Staggering back up to the throne, she seated herself, waiting until the clatter of departing feet retreated into silence. Petulance and ill temper showed in her sneer. Unable to bear looking upon her equipment of sorcery, Maguda swept it away. Skull, stones and bones tumbled down the stairs. Landing upright, the skull lay grinning sightlessly up at her. Maguda spat at it. Her vision had been thwarted. She had been granted a glimpse of the
Flying Dutchman
—but only a glimpse. The sight of evil she delighted revelling in had been cut short. The fair-skinned boy, he who owned the black dog—she would see all of the
Dutchman
in his eyes. Maguda Razan quivered with anticipation. She would bring the boy under her power when she had him alone, and then . . .
then.

 
Rain began falling from an overcast sky on the afternoon of the fair's end. Folk began packing up stalls and wares to leave early before a downpour set in. Hidden beneath hooded cloaks and equipped with packs of food, Ben and his friends stood at the grilled gate by the tunnel door.

Comte Vincente Bregon gave Ned a final pat, and kissed Karay's cheek and embraced the two boys. “Go now, young friends, this rain will provide cover for you. Garath, take them as far as the gates—you know what to do. Nobody must know you were my guests and not prisoners. Let us hope when we meet again the sun will be shining and we will be smiling. May the Lord protect and keep you from harm!”

Not many people lingered to see them marched to the gates by the good blacksmith, though the few who were witness to the scene saw Garath crack his whip over the heads of the freed prisoners and warn them sternly, “Gypsies, thieves, be off with you! Thank your lucky stars my master was in a lenient mood. Go on, get out of Veron! If you are ever seen within the walls again, you will be tied to a cart and whipped all the way to the Spanish border!”

Ned barked as Garath cracked the whip several times, then the big black dog hurried out of the village in the wake of his companions.

Ben squinted his eyes against the increasing rain as he looked toward the mountains. “We'd best cut off southeast through the forested slopes. It'll give us some protection from this weather!”

Thunder rumbled in the distance as they squelched off across the grassy slopes outside the walls of Veron. Dominic looked back at the remainder of the market traders setting off in other ways to go to their homes.

Karay called out to him, “Come on, Facemaker, keep up! Don't be lagging behind!”

As he caught up with the others, the girl gave him a scathing glance. “What were you gaping at those bumpkins for—fresh faces to sketch? You might as well draw pictures of turnips as of those tight-fisted clods!”

Dominic noticed that Ned was watching the departing traders, too. “You'd do well to take a lesson from Ned and me. Take a peek at those folk yourself, see how many are watching us, and then tell me: How many of them are ordinary people, and how many are Razan spies, watching which way we're headed?”

Ned passed Ben a thought. “Wide awake, mate, that's me and Dominic. Bet you never thought of that!”

Ben answered his friend's message aloud. “Good thinking, Dominic. Perhaps we'd best go another way, just to mislead them.”

On Ben's advice, they cut off at a tangent that led away from the forested mountain foothills. It was late afternoon before the coast was clear. Lightning flashes lit the gloomy landscape, and thunder boomed closer, as Karay halted at a swollen stream that threaded its way out of the woods and the high country.

“I don't know if we'd leave much trail in the rain, but no one would be able to track us through running water. Let's wade through this stream, up into the woods.”

The three friends went knee-deep in the icy cold waters, holding hands to stay upright.

Ned followed, grumbling thoughtfully. “Huh, rained on from above and soaked from below. I've seen better days for trekking. At least the rain forests in South America were warm. What d'you say, mate?”

Ben gripped the black Labrador's collar, assisting him. “Aye, nice muddy rivers full of snakes, with all manner of insects biting and stinging and tickling. Piranha fish, too, oh for the good old days. Would you trade them for this?”

Ned looked mournfully up at his friend. “Point taken!”