The Book of Bones (6 page)

“That's a vulgar way of looking at it,” Cecil Baker gave me a wintry smile. “I prefer to see it as inviting you on a luxurious and mutually profitable visit. If you do as
you're told, that is. Going by your history, I cannot say I'm confident.”

He looked me over, from head to toe. I felt like a slave being sized up at a flesh market. I recalled the last time I had seen this man, in that magical glade in the Himalayas. The shrunken, wizened being lapping greedily at the waters of immortality. For the time being, at least, his gamble with fate appeared to have paid off. He was much changed from the wheezing ghost we had first spotted leaving the steamship at Bombay. Now, in appearance at least, he was young and handsome.

“I have a job for you,” Cecil Baker continued. “An exciting opportunity.”

“Bet it's an opportunity to get ourselves killed,” Waldo said.

“We won't go into the details tonight. You will eat, drink and sleep. Cyril and I will meet you again tomorrow. We will have a little chat and then I believe you will see sense.”

Cecil Baker stood up. “I wish you a good night. Things always look rosier after a decent sleep.”

“I won't do a thing for you and nor will my friends,” Waldo spat. “We're not for hire.”

“We shall see.” The man smiled, to reveal perfect white teeth. With that Cecil Baker was gone.

We looked at each other after he vanished, not knowing
what to say. We were all very scared, but unwilling to admit it to each other. The silence hung heavy in the air.

Finally Waldo said, “It's not as if we have any choice, is it?”

“We could run? Fight?” I said. “Maybe we could climb out of the windows.” But though I tried to sound brave I was despairing inside. I couldn't see how we could escape from this castle fortress.

“He
has
us. Don't you see it, Kit?” Waldo shook his head. “The Bakers are famous collectors, aren't they?”

“So?”

“
We
are their latest exhibits.”

That night we were given an elegant chamber furnished with twin beds, the sheets silk, the pillows filled with the softest feathers. Two starched cotton nightgowns were laid out. There were even hot-water bottles. Rachel curled up in an eiderdown, looking over the marble washstand, the velvet curtains, the Turkey rugs on the gleaming floorboards. It was everything we could have wished for.

But we were not on some luxurious holiday. We were prisoners—high up in the castle's guest quarters. There were guards on the door. Through the night drifted sounds of revelry that excluded us. The strains of a mazurka from the lawns below, then some jolly peasant dance. The faintest chink of champagne glasses. And beyond, the sounds of the other orchestra, more plaintive. Neither Rachel nor I was in the mood for conversation and we lay in our soft beds in silence. I finally drifted off to sleep with the sounds of the violins in my ears—their sadness echoing my own mood.

I woke up with a jolt, my limbs stiff and aching, despite my feather bed. At first I thought it was the orchestra—still fiddling away. No. It was a human voice I heard. Someone wailing in the spaces over our heads. It was a heart-rending cry, grief-stricken. It sounded high, like a child's. It made me want to weep; at the same time I was desperate to jump out of bed, charge out into the night and stop whatever was causing this sadness. No use. Armed guards on the door and, besides, this castle was a pit, full of horrors I did not yet know.

Uneasily I dropped back into an aching, dreamless sleep.

I was woken again by the door opening. Two different waiters in white livery, their faces as expressionless as the others, were pushing another trolley. Breakfast. What a breakfast! Fried eggs, quail, bacon, sausages, toast—a feast. I wasn't hungry. Still, you know Kit Salter. I managed a few mouthfuls.

We had scarcely finished breakfast when the guards came. We were marched through endless corridors, down twisting staircases, over a bridge, till we came to an elaborate teak door. I was struck by the carving. The beautiful figures on it looked foreign to me. There was a female in the center, with a globular head, a panther squatting at her legs. I sensed she had been imported from some distant, scorching land. The door swung
open, revealing an enormous room.

“Butterflies,” Rachel whispered.

There were hundreds, thousands of butterflies, crawling, sleeping and fluttering in the glass cases, which towered to the ceiling. One section of the wall shimmered an iridescent blue. Another glowed a coppery orange. Still another, whiter than snow. I marveled at the extravagance of a nature which could create such joyful patterns. One of the turquoise butterflies had white splodges marching up her wings, as if someone had dipped their finger in paint and anointed her with tribal marks. The guards pushed us onward, leaving us only moments to feel for these beautiful creatures trapped in their glass prisons. Then we were in another chamber, similar to the last but full this time of dead treasures. Like the butterflies they glowed, though this time in more restrained colors. Yellows, blues, subtle shades of white. The most delicate Chinese porcelain you could imagine—from the Qing and Ming and other dynasties, a quick glance at the labels told us. All this wealth was illuminated by the light that poured in from a large, arched window. Looted, judging from the stained glass at the top, from some abbey or cathedral.

The Baker Brothers were sitting under the window, two misers in the midst of their wealth. In the middle of the circular table there was a large square shape, covered
by a checked tablecloth. Cyril was reading
The Times
, Cecil the
Illustrated London News
. Both of them were wearing spotless white cotton gloves. They looked up as we approached and Cecil greeted us with a pallid smile.

“Up with the worm, I see,” he wheezed.

He gestured us to sit, waving a white paw. All four of us did as we were bid. Cyril was staring at us with glassy eyes and I was struck again by the Brothers' oddness. Their faces didn't really have
expressions
. When they smiled their faces scarcely moved, as if some doctor had drained the humanity out of them. No doubt about it, drinking of the waters of immortality had turned them into freaks of nature. They were fine, yes, almost beautiful, but only as a statue is beautiful. They were blond, clean, free of the marks of age, but it had somehow robbed them of life itself.

“My brother has convinced me of the wisdom of inviting you children to Hadden Castle. I took some persuading, I can tell you!” Cyril said, his voice even more papery than his brother's.

“You're very fortunate,” Cecil smirked. “My brother
does
have an unfortunate tendency to bear grudges.” In the look he gave his twin, I saw for the first time, some fondness.

“Thanks very much for the ‘invitation'—but none of us
asked
to come to Hades Castle,” Waldo said boldly.

“Hadden Castle,” Cyril snapped, then to his brother he murmured, “I believe some of the workmen took to calling it Hades.”

“Impudent beasts,” said Cecil, and then he turned his blue gaze on me. “You were invited here, dear children, for a reason. I have in mind a task for you. A very special mission—which will test your intelligence, your nerve and, how shall I put it, your survival instinct—in equal proportion. I am convinced you have these qualities in some measure. You see, it is a rare person that can best
me
in a challenge.”

Cecil was staring at me with something like admiration and I felt a glow of pride.

“Kit Salter, you reached Shambala. You made it to the temple of the oracle in Siwa. You are a very unusual girl.”

My glowing feeling spread. Then abruptly I remembered who was flattering me and I felt hollow.

“I'm not interested in your compliments,” I spat.

Cyril eyed me like a cobra sizing up a mouse while Cecil shrugged. “I offer them freely. It is your qualities that made me choose you, Kit Salter—and your er … seconds … Waldo, Isaac and Rachel of course.”

“What is this task?” Waldo asked wincing at the description of himself as a second. “Not that—”

“We take it for granted that you will protest,” Cyril interrupted—and Cecil flashed him a look of amusement. “We don't expect you to do anything for us freely.”

That word, “freely,” hung ominously in the air.

Cecil pushed a gloved hand through his hair and then, leaning forward, steepled his hands on the table. I caught a merest glimpse of the wrist under the glove. It was a repulsive sight. The skin was wrinkled and browned, like that of a rotten apple. It reminded me of a monkey, or a very aged man. Somehow to see it side-by-side with smooth flesh was particularly revolting.

“What's wrong with your hands?” I blurted. “Is that why you wear those gloves?”

The amiable expression on Cecil's face was replaced in an instant by pure malice.

“Just this once,” he said very, very slowly, “I will overlook your appalling manners.”

“Get to the meat,” his twin murmured, who seemed a man of fewer words.

Waldo said, “Give it to us straight. Why did you kidnap us?”

“Cards on the table.” Cecil leaned back in his chair and spread out his gloved hands. “We are sending you to China, in the care of our best captain and crew. There is something I need you to—how shall I put this—retrieve from a secret monastery in the Songshan mountains.”

“You want us to steal? From monks?”

“Exactly!” Cyril grinned briefly. He glanced at his brother, who bowed his head. “Let's call a spade a spade.
There is a book in that monastery that we want. You will bring it to us.”

“Why do you want this book?” Rachel asked.

“Is it their business?” Cyril asked his brother.

“I suppose they have a right to wonder,” Cecil replied.

“Very well,” Cyril said. “I am talking of the legendary Book of Bones. It contains the finest of Kung Fu wisdom.”

“What is Kung Fu?” Rachel whispered.

“An ancient Chinese system of fighting. Usually there are no weapons involved, just the skill of the fighter. It's what they call martial arts … a bit like boxing but more sophisticated, in a way.” Isaac replied. He can rarely resist an opportunity to show off.

“This doesn't ring true,” I said. “I would have thought guns and bombs were more your style than bare hands.”

Cyril turned his chill gaze on me. Inside I felt very, very cold. “I would have thought
you
would understand, Kathleen. In Shambala we conquered mortality. The Book of Bones will enable us to—how shall I put it—perfect our perfection!”

“Perfect our perfection!” Cecil murmured. “That's good, brother, very good.”

“What the Hades are these guys talking about?” Waldo whispered to me. “They're about as perfect as a pair of gargoyles.”

“Look here,” Isaac interrupted. “I'm not being rude, just trying to understand. Are you saying you want this Book of Bones as a sort of health manual?”

Cyril inclined his head. “Precisely.”

Something was wrong with the Bakers, despite their seeming good looks. Something that was making them desperate for this Book of Bones. The withered hands, the rotten smell that they gave off when one came too close.

I remembered the words of Maya, the guardian of Shambala. She had predicted that their beauty was a curse. It would quickly wither in the outside world. Did they believe this thing was a talisman, which would help them in some way? What was this Book of Bones?

“I don't understand,” I said. “Why me? I mean, if you want this Book of Bones so much, why don't you just go and get it. Or if you don't want to risk your um … good looks, send one of your minions.”

“Sharp as ever, Miss Salter,” Cecil murmured. “The reason is simple. It is said that only one who is ‘pure of heart' will be able to remove the Book from the monastery. Our experiences in Shambala convinced us that, although you are an infuriating nuisance, you have some valuable virtues. So we have entrusted you and your friends with this little commission.”

For the first time, I knew I had some power. “No,” I
said firmly. “I will not play your game.”

“You're quite sure about that?”

“Bully and bribe all you like! We're not going anywhere!”

“You know I'm almost glad to hear you protest,” Cecil said. “You see we cooked up a little insurance policy. Tell them, Cyril.”

Cyril's rubber lips pulled back over his perfect teeth. “We thought of torture, pulling your fingernails out one by one, that sort of thing. But it was so messy. Then we came up with something a little more subtle.”

“A plan sprung fully formed from Cyril's fertile mind,” Cecil interjected.

“A little something was added to your food yesterday,” Cyril said, slowly drawling the words for maximum effect. “One of you has been poisoned.”

“What?” Waldo asked dully.

“I repeat. One of you has been given a deadly poison.”

“Just … one of us?” I asked.

His pale blue eyes scanned us, looking over each of us in turn. Was it my imagination that they lingered a little longer on me? They were openly amused. My heart beat faster and my hands began to tremble. Was I the ill-omened one? Somehow I just
knew
it was me.

Cyril held up his gloved hand to silence our uproar. “This is a fatal poison, deadly and subtle. The ‘chosen
one' won't feel anything yet. But be assured. Our chemist is a
very
talented man. If you are not back from Peking with the Book of Bones, in precisely five months you will go off to meet your maker; I promise you that. One of you will die. You will die a very horrible death if you do not take the antidote.”

“Why not all of us?” Rachel burst out. “I would have thought it was more your style to kill us all.”