The Witch of Glenaster (11 page)

We agreed to remain with
Stefano for the time being, and were happy there after a fashion; though for
the first week or so Thomas would not let us beyond the house and its tidy,
high-walled garden: “Until I know it is safe.” We chased each other along the
passageways, and up and down the stairs, getting hopelessly lost; and we soaked
up the sunshine in the garden, and slept as soundly as we could in our small
room, though our dreams were often punctured by nightmares. But slowly we
relaxed, and felt more like children again. And Stefano cooked us fine meals,
and Thomas, though often out, would always take time to be with us when he
returned, and sometimes join in our games, and give us piggybacks round the
house. But I could not help but feel that, lucky as we were to have such kind
protectors, we were ultimately prisoners here, for in the end we had little
choice but to do as we were ordered.

There was also the question of
who, or what, Thomas was: Stefano continued to call him “Captain”, though less
so after a while, and I wondered if Thomas had warned him about doing so when
we were around. And I was eager to know what his business was, that would take
him away from us for so long: what was he planning? And always there was the
pendant, the one that he wore around his neck; once I saw him sitting quietly,
when he thought he was alone, cradling it in his hands, and weeping softly.

Finally, about ten days after
arriving in
Ampar
, Thomas decided it was safe enough
for us to take a trip into town, and asked me where I might like to go. The
enquiries he had made on our behalf about our parents, and Cousin Beatrice, had
come to naught; and though this did not come as a surprise to me, still the
lack of news felt bitter. But I tried to remain strong, for myself and for my
brother, whom I assured I would not rest until I knew for certain what had
become of our mother and father.

Thomas had some important
business that day in Viol, the thickly bustling religious quarter, near the
Street of Dancers. He would not countenance Magnus or
I
accompanying him, but after some cajoling and pestering he agreed we could have
a look inside the atrium of the Imperial Compendium while we waited for him.
“You’ll be safe there – the entrance hall is open to the public, and there is
plenty to see. After a couple of hours I will come back and fetch you; maybe
there will be time to have a look at some of the Dancers later. But on no
account stray far from the Compendium. The streets are like a maze in that part
of the city.”

“What if I want to get in?” I
asked him. He was impatient with my question.

“Get in where? They will not
allow you into the Compendium itself: only the librarians are allowed in there,
and those with special permission, and that is rarely granted. The books are
not to be seen or read by ordinary people: they are only there to be admired,
and studied by those most versed in their lore. The whole building is a
monument to the Emperor Justin, who had it built: and he did not want grubby
mites like you getting their fingers on his prize collection.” And he laughed,
and tapped me round the back of the head.

“That just seems ridiculous,” I
said, rubbing my head. “Books are for reading, or nothing at all.”

“Much in life is ridiculous,”
said Thomas, quietly. “And yet people put up with it just the same.”

We set off across the courtyard
beside Stefano’s house, our shoes leaving a light trail in the orange dust that
coated the ground. The day was warm for October, and I was grateful for the
bath I had had that morning, and for the new clothes Stefano had given us:
boys’ clothes, which were too big for Magnus, and too severe for me, but were
the only suitable garments the old man could find, and were at least clean and
comfortable.

We hailed a cab at the top of
Duke Street, which ran close by, and the driver seemed in no great hurry to
reach our destination; indeed he seemed to want to give us a full guided tour,
pointing out Execution Square (“Everybody loves a good execution, I’m sure
you’ll agree”) and, as we rose up through the city, the various bridges that
connected the uppermost reaches of the capital, including the famous Bridge of
Socus
, arcing gracefully across the sky, held in place, it
seemed, by sheer will alone.

The driver steered the cab
gingerly through the Aisles, the narrow lanes of shops and houses that abutted
Mansion Street, where many of the Court’s more senior retainers – wealthy,
though not as much as those from the great aristocratic families – lived, in
large, anonymous houses which turned their noses up at the people below. Magnus
and I gazed at them as we made our way along the street’s half-mile stretch,
the driver pointing out which house belonged to whom, and who currently had the
emperor’s favour, and who did not. Thomas, his felt hat tilted over his eyes,
slept off his boredom, and I had to nudge him awake when we finally arrived at
Retribution Square, and the Imperial Compendium.

The square was one of the
largest in
Ampar
, and four great pillars marked its
corners: one for each of the Four Great Emperors, founders of the civilized
world. Each was subtly yet recognisably different, the carven marble telling
the story of each man’s various triumphs and victories, and how they had forged
the Great Settlement, which established peace and stability after the chaos and
violence of the Long Wars. That was how the Histories had it, anyway.

We alighted near the
Compendium’s high entrance-doors, the driver hungry for coins, and Thomas added
a generous tip to the fare.

“We already paid!” protested
Magnus, sulking, as the cab drove off.

“There’s the good little
capitalist!” laughed the swordsman. “It’s a custom. Besides, I doubt he bathes
in ewes’ milk.” This was an old expression - though I had not heard it in a
while - and it was always said in a tone of quiet resignation; for so few in
the wide world were rich, and so many were poor.

Thomas strode ahead of us,
pointing with a long, thin finger to the highest levels of the city, framed
beyond, like a rumour in the morning haze.

“There is the Citadel, away up
there,” he said. “There lies the Imperial Palace, with its high Keep, and no
man gets in who has no business there. They say there is an elite troop of
shadowfighters
– the emperor’s personal guard – who
protect the grounds of the Palace by night and day.” He said this with a note
of contempt, and I wondered what he meant, and who the
shadowfighters
were.

 “But what about the
ordinary folk?” I asked. “Isn’t it terribly expensive, maintaining such an
army?”

Thomas gave me a sideways
glance, and smiled.

“I believe,” he said, slowly,
“people have got into trouble for asking such questions too loudly…” And he
grinned his tombstone grin, and walked through one of the open doors, into the
atrium of the Imperial Compendium.

         
I remember thinking, as we left the warm glare of the morning behind us, and
entered the cool, high atrium of “the greatest library in the world” (as it
called itself), that you could fit a small town into that one, empty space. The
rest of the Compendium was vast, of course, but then it had to be, containing
as it did the world’s accumulated knowledge; but it seemed beyond reason and
sense to make what was after all only a lobby, an entrance-hall, as stupidly
big as this. Words twittered up to the high ceiling before they had had time to
reach the listener’s ear, and the walls of grey marble, which someone must once
have thought impressive, merely looked dirty. The effect was crudely emphasized
by the only piece of real furniture: a conical desk, designed to appear as if
balanced on its narrowest end, behind which sat a large, crop-haired man in an
ill-fitting uniform, whose head was barely visible above the cone’s upper rim.
Thus both he and any visitor were dwarfed by their surroundings: it seemed the
better part of a hundred yards from door to desk, and by the time you arrived
there you felt like falling to your knees, which presumably was the intention.

         
Around the walls hung greying tapestries, which depicted various events in the
empire’s long history, and were interspersed with closely printed text
explaining their significance. Somehow they managed to make even the most
exciting stories seem deathly dull, and I dreaded having to spend several hours
here, with nothing to do but follow the herd of people progressing in a slow
arc around the atrium, pretending to be fascinated by the exhibits when they
were presumably just killing time, like us.

         
 The guard behind the desk looked at us as we approached. Peering over the
edge, he asked, unhappily:

“Yes…?”

“Greetings, brother,” said
Thomas, cheerfully. “We were just wondering which way one is supposed to view
the exhibits – that is, where does the exhibition start exactly…
?
My two young friends here are eager to fill their minds
with some really nutritional knowledge, and I wouldn’t want them to miss
anything.”

I gave Thomas a look, and he
half-winked at me. The guard, who was slow but not so stupid that he didn’t
know when he was being patronized, scowled slightly, and grabbed a leaflet in
his fat, dirty fingers, pushing it across the desk at Thomas, who bowed, and
retreated. We padded after him, and I asked:

“You mean we really have to
spend our time here, looking at tapestries, while you go off and have
adventures?” He sighed.

“Firstly, I am not off ‘having
adventures’; secondly, you did say you wanted to see the Imperial Compendium…”

“Yes, but…”

“I will be two hours at the
most. Look after your brother, and don’t get into any trouble.” And with that
he strode back to the entrance, and disappeared through the doors, leaving
Magnus and I with a crumpled leaflet, and a room full of strangers, and boredom.

For a good half an hour we
trooped around the exhibition, obediently following the route marked out on the
leaflet for the most part, though Magnus quickly grew impatient, and started
pulling at my hand, scratching various parts of his body, and staring at the
other visitors with unselfconscious curiosity, and I suppose a little fear: for
the confident and stylish, and somewhat haughty, citizens of
Ampar
were a mystery and a puzzle to us, their faces –
especially when out on the street – seemingly always full of bad-tempered
obliviousness, as if time itself might arrest their feet if they did anything
so obvious as stop to pass the time of day.

Inside the atrium, they were
more hushed, and less hurried, but still an air of impatience clung to them
like knotweed, and though the exhibits were dull for my brother and I, and
hardly set at a height – or in a tone – designed to engage anyone much under
the age of forty, I felt disappointment that the adults around us did not show
more interest. So much for the elite, I thought, much later, when the memories
of my childhood had settled in my mind, and I could give them meaning.

My eye started to wander, and I
grew weary of the exhibition, and weary of constantly having to keep Magnus
amused. I noticed that there were people, who I took to be librarians of some
kind (though not the fearsome Magi-Librarians of my imagination), coming in and
out of the atrium through a door set in one of the far corners. A guard was
stood by it, though he did not seem particularly watchful, and occasionally
folk would stop and engage him in conversation before disappearing into
whatever lay beyond. As we moved closer – the crowd of which we were a part
moving with aching slowness around the hall – I took in more details of the
door, and also began to note the frequency of its opening and closing: and how
long it took to do so, for it seemed, and I registered this with growing
excitement, to be on a steady, and slow, hinge…

Its handle was a vertical bar
of solid brass, riveted firmly to the door and set outwards from it, to afford
a good grip; and both its outside and, so it looked, its inside, were padded
out with soft leather. It appeared quite heavy, for some of the smaller folk
who passed through it had to entreat the guard to help hold it open.

Approaching the part of the
exhibition nearest the door, I found myself daydreaming, then planning, and
finally deciding, to attempt to slip through it when the guard wasn’t looking,
and so gain access to the rooms beyond, and hopefully the Compendium itself. I
knew this was a stupid and dangerous thing to do, and yet somehow I could not
help myself, and I felt that this was the only way I would find the answers
that I sought, and steel myself for my encounter with the Witch.

I reckoned two or three seconds
was the maximum time one might have, judging by the average extent of the
door’s outward angle as it was opened; two or three seconds to get through, and
one would have to be very, very close before attempting it. I mulled whether to
include Magnus in my deliberations, but decided it would make it more, not
less, difficult, if I were to suddenly grab and then pull him after me, and I
could not leave him alone in the atrium. I gave him as much forewarning as I
dared, whispering:

“That door…”

And that was all he needed to
know my mind. But, just as his small face rose in surprise and his mouth opened
to protest, the moment was upon us, and we had to act: the door opened. It
opened wide, for a portly and slow-moving man came through it, accompanied by a
small and daintily built young woman, whom the man ungallantly allowed to hold
the door open as he waddled through it. He was apparently someone of
importance, for the guard was quite solicitous, helping the man towards a group
of enrobed dignitaries, who had the air and manner of people who had quite
forgotten what it was to be anything other than fawned upon.

This was our chance: for one of
the young woman’s shoes slipped off her feet, and as she stopped to push it
back on, she balanced herself against the door, and held it out almost to its
fullest extent. And as she let it go, not noticing us - for her life had other
miseries - we dashed through the door and into the darkness beyond, I gripping
Magnus’s hand so hard he had no choice but to run after me.