Eoin Colfer - Airman

‘You left the roof door open, old man,’ said a voice in heavily accented English. Linus knew immediately who it was. Sultan Arif, Bonvilain’s deadly second in command.

‘You of all people should know,’ continued Sultan, ‘that sometimes trouble comes from above.’

The fuse. I must ignite it.

Linus made a lunge for the lounge, suffering the blade at his neck to gouge deeply, but there was no escaping Sultan Arif. The captain grabbed him as though he were a struggling pup and hoisted him to his feet.

Keep your bearings. Know where you are.

It was a difficult task with such distractions to his senses. There was pain in his neck and wet blood down his back. The gunshot echo had not yet faded and Sultan swung him around. Linus was utterly disorientated.

Concentrate. Where are you?

In the end, Sultan made it easy for him.

‘Let’s go down and meet our master, shall we?’ he said, pushing Linus across the room. Wynter heard the door bolts scrape back and the gush of cool air against his face.

I am in the doorway , he thought, fingers questing for the frame.

Sultan’s voice was loud by his ear. ‘I have him, Marshall,’ he called. ‘The blind man is alone. There is a rope ladder here, I shall tie it off.’

‘Don’t be so tiresome, Sultan, throw him down,’ said Bonvilain. ‘Nothing is more amusing than watching a blind man fall.’

Sultan sighed, this was a task without honour, but honour was not a quality greatly prized by the marshall.

‘Relax, old man. Tight bones are broken bones.’

The leather in his coat creaked as he bent his arm to push. Linus waited for the right moment, and as Sultan propelled him into space he screamed. Loudly enough to mask the sound of a sulphur sleeve being ripped from a fuse running along the doorframe.

Linus cried as he regained consciousness, for as his head had struck the earth he had seen something. A flash of light – just for a moment – now all was dark again. His breathing was restricted by the weight of a boot on his chest.

‘I remember you,’ said Bonvilain. ‘You played piano for the king. Very clever, a blind spy. Well, old boy, your piano-playing days are over. Your spying days too, come to think of it.’

‘Damn you, Hugo Bonvilain,’ rasped Linus valiantly. ‘There is a special pit in Hell reserved for your ilk.’

The marshall laughed. ‘I have no doubt of it, which is why I intend to delay my departure from this life as long as possible. Your departure, however, is imminent, unless you answer my questions promptly.’

Linus’s own laugh was bitter. ‘Just kill me, Bonvilain. Your prison couldn’t break me, and neither can you.’

‘Do you know, I think you’re right. I believe that you would resist me with your final breath. I shall never understand you principled people. Sultan has a few principles, but he can ignore their berating voices when the situation calls for it. I don’t really need you at any rate. Broekhart will be back and I will be waiting, simple as that.’

‘Perhaps not so simple,’ said Linus.

At that moment, the linked fuses sent half a dozen flares rocketing into the sky. They exploded pink and red, their light reflected on the bellies of dark clouds.

Bonvilain watched their slow descent with catty dismay.

‘Warning flares. How this young Broekhart wriggles. I swear, sometimes it seems I have been trying to bury him for his entire life.’

‘Help is on the way,’ gasped Linus. ‘The fire brigade will be called.’

Bonvilain thought briefly, knocking his knuckles on his forehead, then called to Sultan. ‘Fetch me pen and paper from the tower. I will nail a special invitation to this man’s head.’

‘I am not eager to murder a blind man, Marshall,’ said Sultan calmly.

‘We have talked about this, Captain,’ hissed Bonvilain, in the tone of a parent who does not wish his children to hear. ‘In your soldiering days you had no such morals.’

‘That was war. They were soldiers. This is a blind old man.’

‘Fetch me the pen,’ insisted Bonvilain.

‘I did not unfurl the ladder.’

‘Unfurl? Unfurl ? Are you William Shakespeare now? Fire another bolt then, climb up another rope.’

Sultan nodded towards the village. ‘That will take several minutes. I do not believe there is time.’

Bonvilain scowled petulantly. ‘This is really too much, Sultan. I fervently hope this old man is the one who puts a knife between your ribs. I will lean over your dying body just to say I told you so.’

Sultan bowed low, to show his continued loyalty.

‘Too late for bowing now, my good man. I am very disappointed in you.’

‘My apologies, Marshall.’

‘Yes, of course, apologies. How useful. At least do me the kindness of tying this spy to the pillar.’

‘Of course, Marshall.’

Linus was hoisted upright and thrust roughly against the gate pillar. Bands of rope crossed his legs and torso, cinching tight enough to burn. Sultan’s footsteps circled round, making him dizzy.

Dizziness without sight. Darned unfair.

But at least it seemed he was to live, though with Bonvilain involved there would definitely be a condition.

‘Very well, blind man,’ said the marshall’s voice to his left, low and mocking. ‘You have earned yourself a reprieve. Deliver this message to the Airman. Tell him that I am hosting a gathering tomorrow night. A small dinner to celebrate the life of Conor Broekhart, which I find amusingly ironic. It will be the third anniversary of his death. Family and friends only. Wine will be served for a special toast, a potent vintage. Very potent. It will seem as though the rebels have managed to infiltrate the kitchen. Tragic.’

Linus did not have the breath for insults.

‘Be sure to tell Conor that I am going to all this trouble because of him,’ continued Bonvilain, fingers digging into Linus’s shoulder. ‘If he had remained where I left him, then none of this would be necessary, but because he escaped and then stole from me, his brother becomes an orphan. You know, perhaps I will make the infant my ward. Raise him as my own. A little marshall.’

Bonvilain chuckled, enjoying his own twisted sense of humour.

‘How the people would love me. Noble Bonvilain adopts another man’s child.’

Linus managed a short sentence. ‘No one loves you, Bonvilain.’

‘You’re right,’ said the marshall. ‘And you would think that might bother me, but no, I seem to find all the fulfilment I need in material wealth.’

Sultan moved, bowing, into Bonvilain’s line of sight. ‘Marshall, those flares could attract attention.’

Bonvilain was disappointed. No doubt the villagers would come to investigate the flares. No more time for gloating. A pity – he enjoyed it so, and there were all too few occasions. Ah well, poisoning the queen and the Broekharts was something to look forward to. And with any luck Conor would throw himself into the pot too. And, even if he did not, Bonvilain would soon be prime minister and nothing anyone said would be able to change that.

Time for one last word with the blind man.

‘I suppose the Irish will untie you,’ he said. ‘But, even so, do not run away. Remain here and deliver my message, or your master will not have the chance to kill himself attempting to foil my plans.’

Bonvilain slapped Linus hard across the cheek. ‘After that, spend the rest of your life wondering when I will kill you. As we know, you will not see me coming.’

Linus kept his lip stiff and his frown in place, but he was breathing hard through his nose, and had the ropes not held him he would surely have collapsed.