The Hero's Tomb (6 page)

Chapter Eight

Joseph was safe.

Safe in Port Fayt, in the house with the green front door. Safe at home.

He lay in his cot, a baby all over again, nestled in blankets. A fire crackled in the hearth and his father’s face hovered above him, shining with love.

‘Sleep tight, young ’un.’

Joseph could hardly believe it. After so many years they were really together again – his family. The only thing he’d ever wanted. He looked up into the face of his father, Elijah Grubb, marvelling at the magic of that smile. The sparkle of those eyes.

‘Again!’ he begged.

His father wiggled his ears up and down, and Joseph chuckled.

‘Again!’

His father crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. ‘It’s time to sleep now, Joseph,’ he said gently, when Joseph’s laughter had died down.

‘No! Story. Please!’

‘You’ve already had a story. But I’ll sit beside you while you fall asleep. How’s that?’ He held out his silver pocket watch, and Joseph lost himself in the
tick tock, tick tock
of the second hand. ‘I’ll keep watch, Joseph. I’ll make sure the mice don’t nibble your toes. I love you, Joseph. Don’t ever forget that.’

Joseph’s lips curled into a smile to match his father’s. He closed his eyes.

‘What are you doing?’ said a new voice.

He opened them again and saw that another face had appeared.

‘Mother?’

No, it was someone else. A girl with blue hair.

‘Why are you being a baby?’ said Tabitha.

Joseph tried to answer, but he couldn’t.

‘Come on! You’ve got to get out. You’ve got to keep going. You can’t just give up …’

When Joseph woke, the wigs were still there.

Wigs in all shapes and sizes. Some were draped over wooden heads on shelves, covered in silky cobwebs. Others exploded out of old, half-rotten boxes. Still more lay limp and trampled on the floorboards like dead rats. Enormous, white-powdered monstrosities for flashy merchants; subtle wigs that looked like natural heads of hair; even bizarre multi-coloured creations decked out with ribbons. In the glow of a lantern that hung from the rafters they seemed to watch Joseph, like an audience of malicious animals, waiting to see what he would do next.

Nothing, apparently.

He’d already examined every inch of the attic, and found no hope of escape. No windows – just the solid oak beams of the rafters. The only light came from the lantern and what little filtered around the trap door. It was thick, heavy and bolted shut. Maybe if he was an ogre he could have jumped on it and broken it from its hinges.
Maybe
. But he was just a weedy mongrel boy.

In the end he’d given up and done his best to sleep, but he hadn’t managed more than a few hours of fitful slumber all night long.

Perhaps this was part of the cat’s revenge – making
him wait in horrible uncertainty. The ginger-haired shapeshifter clearly hadn’t forgotten what had happened back in Fayt when Joseph had first met him. How Joseph had turned him over to the Demon’s Watch. How the watchmen had sent the shapeshifter back to the Old World, soaking wet and trapped in a cage.

He slumped in his corner, one hand clenched tight around the silver pocket watch. A gift from his mother to his father, and now it was his. The only thing he had left in all the world. The shapeshifters had taken his cutlass and his money pouch, and worst of all, the wooden spoon.

They know exactly what it is.

Without it, his plan was hopeless. He had no hope of getting out of here. No hope of getting Jeb the Snitch to talk.

The metal of the watch glowed orange in the light of the lantern, and Joseph’s fingers ran over the inscription once again, as they had every day he’d been on the sea, travelling to Azurmouth.
To my dearest Elijah, with all my love, Eleanor.
He’d dwelt on those words more than he’d admit to anyone. They fired his heart, driving him to keep going.

For six years, he’d been on his own.
Elijah Grubb was murdered by dockhands.
That was what the
blackcoats had said.
They killed him for marrying a human.
Joseph’s mother had died soon afterwards, and he’d been all alone.

Until the day Jeb told him that his father was alive and well, somewhere in Azurmouth.

The truth. I have to find the truth
. His father had always told him not to give up. That he was as good as any of the boys in the street who called him mongrel, or blotch-face, or half-and-half. Better, because he was special.
Half goblin and half human. There aren’t many who can say that, eh, Joseph?

Whatever it took, he was going to hear that voice again. See that smile. He was going to get the wooden spoon back. Escape the wig shop and the shape-shifters. Find Jeb the Snitch and make that slimy bilge bag talk.

Joseph leaped up and paced the floorboards, searching for anything he might use to get out. But this time he did more than look. He walked slowly and deliberately, feeling the plaster of the walls, listening to the creaks of the boards beneath his feet.

He could hear voices coming from below, and he knelt, pushing his ear to the floor. The sound was too muffled to make out any words, but he could distinguish the deep, rumbling voice of the horse, and the playful, rapid patter of the cat.

There was a third voice too, though he didn’t recognize it.

A door creaked as it opened, and the mystery voice rose in farewell. The door closed, and the cat and the horse held a brief, murmured conversation.

And then Joseph heard the thud of feet on steps, as they began to climb the stairs.

They’re coming. Coming to take revenge on me.

He didn’t have time to be frightened. He cast around again, looking for something – anything – to use against them. Some kind of weapon. But there was nothing except the lantern, and the wigs.

Wait
…

Joseph surged to his feet and seized an armful of wigs from the nearest shelf. He dumped them on top of the trap door. He grabbed another load and piled them on top. Then another, and another, until there was a heap of hair covering the door, like a mound of dead rats.

Like a bonfire, waiting to be lit.

Hands shaking, Joseph unhooked the lantern from its chain, placed it on the floor and carefully took out the stub of candle inside. Slowly, cautiously, he brought it to his heap of hair. If the flame went out, he’d be left in darkness, with no hope of escape. If it didn’t, he’d soon have a raging fire on his hands.

He hesitated.
Is this crazy?
If it worked, the fire might burn right through the trap door. The flames and the smoke might distract his captors enough for him to make a break for it.

Or I’ll be trapped in a burning attic with no escape.

‘Yes, I see the problem.’

Joseph jerked backwards, setting the candle flame guttering. The voice had come from right beside his ear – but the attic was empty.

‘I’m here.’ It was a soft, hissing voice, no more than a whisper. ‘Look a little closer.’

Movement blurred at the edge of Joseph’s vision. Yes – there
was
something there. Something dangling from the rafters, on a glistening thread of silk.

‘I’ve been watching you,’ said the spider, and it made a strange little clicking sound that could only be laughter.

At any other time, in any other place, Joseph would have thought he was going mad. But he knew at once what this was.

A shapeshifter. Another one.

He felt a sudden rush of anger. ‘Spying on me, you mean.’

‘If you like.’

‘How long have you been there?’ The spider’s limbs curled. A shrug, Joseph realized. ‘Who are you?’

‘They call us the Quiet Three. The cat, the horse and the spider.’ The spider revolved slowly on its thread. ‘Now it’s my turn. You are an enigma, little boy. You have come across the ocean, bringing that wooden spoon with you. You know what it is, don’t you? What it can do?’

‘Of course.’

‘Which only deepens the mystery. Think of the danger you have brought upon yourself. In this city even a pure goblin is in danger. A mongrel … it is an abomination. A foul union of seraph-born and demonspawn. So why are you here?’

‘You tell me,’ snapped Joseph. ‘You’re the ones who kidnapped me.’ It wasn’t so hard, standing up to a spider. ‘The cat and the horse – who were they talking to just now?’

The spider laughed. ‘If you hold your silence, I’m afraid I must hold mine.’ And without another word it began to ascend the thread of silk, disappearing into the shadows of the rafters.

For a moment Joseph thought of lunging forward, trying to catch the shapeshifter in his cupped hands. Too late, he remembered the footsteps on the staircase.
Idiot! If I hadn’t let the spider distract me
…

He reached forward again with the candle, but the
trap door opened and wigs scattered in all directions. Yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness, watching him, rooting him to the spot.

‘Come along now, mongrel,’ said the cat. ‘It’s time.’

Chapter Nine

It’s time
, thought Newton.
Time to find out if I’m right.

Corin’s Street was a little less filthy than the surrounding city, but no less packed with citizens. Salesmen had set up in the shadow of the trees that lined the road, flogging toy swords and colourful flags with the names of contestants emblazoned on them. Grifters moved among the throng, taking bets on the fighting. Newton heard the name ‘Lucky Leo’ mentioned more than once.

He was beginning to regret the hooded cloak he’d borrowed from Master Gurney. It was supposed to make him inconspicuous, but from the awed looks
people were giving him he reckoned he was wearing some kind of official magician’s gown. He kept his head down and pushed on uphill, craning his neck to get a glimpse of the building they were all heading towards.

It wasn’t hard to spot. The House of Light shone gleaming white at the end of the road, reflecting the noon sunshine so brightly that he had to shield his eyes.

Newton felt a flicker of doubt.
Am I doing the right thing?
The other watchmen didn’t know where he was going. But if he’d told them, they would have tried to stop him. They wouldn’t have understood –
this isn’t a choice.
He’d made a mistake, and it was up to him to put it right.

No matter what it cost.

If you believed the stories, Corin the Bold had built the House of Light after the Battle of the Three Forests, and laid some of the foundation stones himself. Since then the dukes of Garran had passed it down, one to another, maintaining it at the heart of Azurmouth. ‘Let the sky have its sun,’ went the saying. ‘Azurmouth has the House of Light.’

As he got closer, Newton could make out black shapes on the outer battlements – figures fixed on long metal spikes, high above those white, pristine
walls. They were goblins, most of them, with the odd imp and a dwarf or two. A troll or an ogre would probably have been too heavy. He realized he was rubbing at the marks on his wrists again, and forced himself to stop. His heart felt heavy. His legs too, as though they were unwilling to carry him any further.

He strode on through the gate.

A cobbled courtyard lay beyond, crammed with excitable citizens. In the centre was a wooden platform, raised up above the heads of the crowd so that everyone could see it. Beyond, the façade of the House of Light extended upwards, so high that the top of it could barely be seen. A balcony two floors up had been hung with an enormous banner – the Golden Sun, embroidered in thick gold thread.

Newton found a spot in the shadow of the outer walls and drew his hood up around his head, counting whitecoats. There were at least a hundred posted around the battlements of the outer walls, he reckoned, and a good fifty or so stationed around the courtyard. Thalin knew how many more would be inside.

Breaking into the House of Light wouldn’t exactly be a stroll along the pier, but if his hunch was right, he
would have to do it all the same. He had to make up for what he’d done.

The face of an ancient elf flashed in his memory, just as it had every day – every hour – they’d been on the sea. The face of a blue-coated watchman. The face of a friend he’d let down.

You didn’t die for nothing, Jon. I’ll make sure of it.

A trumpet sounded, and was joined by many more, a triumphant fanfare that rose to one long, swelling note before dying away. Immediately the sound was replaced by whoops and cheers and applause as figures appeared on the balcony up above. The marks on Newton’s wrists began to prickle again at the sight of them.

They were all dressed in white, festooned with sashes, medals and plumed hats. First came a bevy of young men, their faces soft and fat with privilege. Then older statesmen, grey-haired and worn. The lords of the League. These men were responsible for everything. For the zephyrum mines. For the Crying Mountains.
For the Battle of Illon.

An enormous, walrus-like man with bristling grey mutton chops took his place near the centre of the balcony. His chest was a sea of gold and silver medals, and his sash was bright red in contrast with the pure white of his companions’ uniforms.

‘Hail the Earl of Brindenheim!’ shouted someone nearby, and others took up the shout. The walrus man smiled and raised a hand to acknowledge the greeting.

Next came a white-coated woman, long blonde hair tied back, icy blue eyes as calm as ever. Major Turnbull, whose father had run the zephyrum mines at Wyborough, and who had fought Newton on board the League’s flagship at the Battle of Illon. A deadly swordswoman, and a magician to boot.

Looming beyond her, in the shadowy interior, Newton saw something he would never have expected. An ogre, dressed in footman’s livery. He was staring blankly into space, as though he had seen enough of the world and decided it wasn’t for him.
Probably from the mines,
thought Newton.
And now kept in the House of Light as some kind of servant.

A spark of anger flickered in his belly.

The crowd stirred as a small figure appeared from inside and began to make his way to the very front and centre of the balcony.
There he is. The man who killed Old Jon.
The spark flared into a bonfire, and Newton felt his hands clench into fists.

The Duke of Garran was baby-faced, pink-skinned and clad in white just like the others. But at the same time there was something different about him. Something in the easy way he greeted the other
lords, and the way he brushed off his coat as he took his place in the centre of the group, his pale eyes sweeping the crowd.

Then Newton realized it wasn’t something in the Duke himself. It was the way the others looked at him. Their nervous glances. Their shuffling feet.

They’re afraid of him.

‘Citizens of Azurmouth,’ said the Duke. He spoke softly, but it carried out across the courtyard, silencing every conversation at once. ‘Today is Corin’s Day. Welcome, all of you, to the House of Light!’

Applause broke like a wave through the courtyard.

‘Long live the Duke of Garran!’

‘Here’s to the Duke!’

‘Corin save him!’

The cheering swelled again as the League’s swordsmen began to climb onto the wooden platform, tall and strong and handsome in white. Trumpets sounded as the champions strutted, smiled and waved.

Newton spared them no more than a glance. They all looked the same, anyway: athletic and smug. Instead his gaze was fixed on the balcony, where the Duke of Garran stood, his white plume quivering in the breeze. The Duke, who’d shot Newton’s oldest friend in front of him, left him bleeding on the deck, and smiled as he did it.

The anger burned hotter, fiercer in the pit of his stomach.

No. Not now
. It was his anger that had got Old Jon killed in the first place. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper. Not now. Not ever again.

Something caught his eye in the courtyard below. A plump, dark-haired youth had taken to the platform, and the cheers from the crowd had grown even louder with his appearance.

‘Lucky Leo!’ someone called out. ‘Let’s make it six times, eh?’

Leopold smirked as he acknowledged his admirers, tossing his dark fringe from his face, drawing his sword with a flourish and posing as if he were some mighty warrior from the Dark Age.

That sword
…

The hilt – shining silver and studded with milk-white star-stones. The blade – long and slender, carved with swirling patterns from an ancient time.

It was the sword that had lain for centuries at Wyrmwood Manor, until Newton had brought it to Illon, to use in battle against the Duke of Garran.

The sword the Duke had snatched from him and brought back to Azurmouth.

The sword that Newton had crossed the Ebony Ocean to retrieve.
The Sword of Corin.

Something is wrong.

The Duke feels it as soon as Lucky Leo takes the stage. Turning, he sees that the Earl of Brindenheim is watching him.

He stiffens. There is a look on the old fool’s face that makes him wary. Brindenheim is smiling, but even more smugly than usual. There is energy in that smile and – yes – triumph.

For once, Brindenheim knows something he doesn’t.

‘Leopold of Brindenheim!’ calls a herald from below.

‘Bravo,’ calls the fat old Earl, clapping his podgy hands together and spraying spittle into the air. ‘Bravo, Leo.’

Lucky Leo is preening and posing, basking in the applause. His black hair is oiled and combed back for the occasion, and he is dressed in dazzling fencing whites, yet still he manages to give the impression of a plucked chicken ready for the pot. He takes up position in the centre of the platform, legs wide apart, and places his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The Duke peers closer. That sword
…

Leo grins inanely and draws, the blade flashing in the sun as he holds it aloft.

Yes – the Sword of Corin.

‘I know what you think of my son’s fighting skills,’ says the Earl of Brindenheim. He is leaning in close, lowering
his
voice so the other lords cannot hear him. ‘So I’m sure you will agree – if he is to win the contest, he must have a fine blade.’

The Duke thinks of the secret room where Major Turnbull left it. The iron door that held it, and the four whitecoats charged with its protection. It cannot have been easy for Brindenheim’s men to find where the sword was hidden, and the whitecoats would not have given it up without surrendering their own lives first.

He smiles icily. ‘I wonder where you found such a thing?’

‘I think you know where,’ replies Brindenheim. ‘I heard a rumour that you had recovered it at the Battle of Illon, and I hoped you would have no objection if I
…
borrowed it. After all, the spoils of war should be shared openly amongst the lords of the League. We are all equals, are we not?’

‘But of course.’

‘Then naturally, I see no need to tell our fellow lords that the blade my son is wielding is the legendary Sword of Corin.’

Blackmail – who would have guessed the old walrus could be so bold?

So bold, and so foolish.

Brindenheim did not take the sword because he has guessed what the Duke is planning. He did not even
take
it so that his prancing fop of a son has something pretty to fight with. He took it to prove that the Duke is no more powerful than him.

That they are equals.

They are not.

‘Your son is most welcome to it,’ the Duke says softly. ‘I am only sorry he will not be borrowing it for very long.’

Brindenheim’s grin falters, as though he has an inkling of the mistake he has made. Yes – soon enough, he will be sorrier than he can imagine. No man stands against the Way of the Light.

The words of the rhyme run through the Duke’s head, as they have so often since his return to Azurmouth.

He turns back to the courtyard, where Lucky Leo has lowered the blade above the heads of the crowd nearest the platform. They reach up like lambs begging to be fed, desperate to lay their fingers on it.

They have no idea what it is they are touching.