Marcus Sedgwick - The Book of Dead Days

To the side of the tavern was a huge pair of double gates that swung open whenever a coach came or went. Just as they arrived, a vast black coach pulled by four black horses swung down the road and into the courtyard behind the inn.

“Look!” said Willow to Boy, tugging his sleeve. “Just like the sign!”

She pointed at the sign of the Black Four, with a picture of a coach and horses.

“Do you know anyone here?” Valerian asked Willow.

“I spoke to the landlord while Madame rested. She was tired after her journey.”

“Poor thing,” said Valerian unpleasantly. “Well, what’s his name?”

“Budge. Or Bridge. Something like that,” Willow said.

Valerian muttered impatiently and strode through the doors of the inn, his long black coat swirling behind him. He made an even more alarming sight than usual. Tall, dressed in black, with his gray-white hair straggling around his shoulders, he was usually quite imposing. Now, with his arm broken, hitched up and hidden under his soiled and muddied coat, and with eyes that burned despite having not slept properly for many nights, he looked like a minor demon.

Silence fell as he walked into the crowded saloon bar. All eyes fell on Valerian and the two urchins who shuffled nervously behind him.

He stopped in the center of the room.

“The landlord?” he fixed the nearest serving girl with his best glare.

Speechless, she nodded at a frosted glass door in the corner.

“Wait here,” he said to Boy and Willow, then strode through the door.

Gradually the people in the bar stopped staring at Boy and Willow and went back to their own business.

“What on earth do you think this book is?” asked Willow.

“What?” asked Boy. Why did she always have to ask questions? By now all he wanted to do was sleep. They had been chasing around for almost three days, with little in the way of food and rest. He just wanted to collapse in some small dark space and be left alone.

“The book! How is it going to save him?”

“I have no idea,” said Boy. “But if Valerian thinks it will work, it probably will.”

“What’s going to happen to him anyway? On New Year’s Eve?”

Boy shrugged.

“Ask him,” he said.

“I will. I just thought you might have some idea.”

“I’m hungry,” said Boy. “Let’s see if we can get Valerian to buy us something to eat.”

They pushed timidly through the frosted door to find Valerian and the landlord shaking hands.

“Ah, children,” Valerian said, as if he was some kindly uncle. “It is time to go. I have agreed on a price for some transport to take us to Linden immediately.”

The landlord was smiling from ear to ear.

“Perhaps not my best coach, but since you are in a hurry you will not mind…?”

Valerian nodded.

“Valerian,” said Boy, “can we get something to eat?”

“Indeed,” said Valerian. “Mr. Birch here has packed a luncheon aboard our vehicle. Now we must be going. There is no time to waste. You have your money, do you not?” he added, turning to the landlord.

“Yes indeed, a very fair price,” he said. “Well, this way then.”

Birch took them through a back door into the courtyard. The sumptuous black coach they had seen earlier was being made ready to depart.

“Our coach?” enquired Valerian amiably.

The landlord hesitated.

“Er… no,” he said. “Yours lies just beyond.”

Without another word he hurried away. The black coach pulled forward slightly, revealing something little better than a hay-wagon, a small cart suited for taking carrots from the fields to the markets. It was open to the skies and there was barely room in the back for the three of them.

The cart was hitched to a solitary and ancient horse, with a gray coat and a swayback. Inside the cart, their luncheon was a loaf and a bag of carrots, most probably for the horse. Holding the reins was an equally decrepit coachman.

He stared at them, sucking his gums.

“The crook!” cried Valerian. “This will not do! Where’s he gone?”

“What’s the use?” said the cart-driver. “I’ll get you there. You won’t find anyone else to go out into the country today. It’s going to snow.”

Valerian drew in his breath as if he might explode.

“Come on,” he said to Willow and Boy grimly.

They clambered aboard.

“Drive on!” Valerian shouted to the coachman, who jolted the beast into life.

They trotted, at a fair speed, out of the gates and onto the street. As they did so, the grand coach they had seen pulled out of the yard behind them. Valerian leant forward, with some difficulty because of his arm, to speak to the driver.

“That was where you met Madame?” Boy asked, nodding at the inn.

Willow turned to Boy, smiling.

“That’s funny. I was just thinking about her too.”

“You could still go back to her,” said Boy quietly to Willow. “All you have to do is jump off. Go back to the theater. She’d take you back.”

Willow turned to look at Boy.

“No,” she said sadly. “I hated her. She hated me. I’m sick of it. And anyway, she’d probably turn me over to the Watch for Korp’s murder.”

“I can’t believe you think working for Valerian is any better,” said Boy.

“I don’t. I mean, I’m not working for Valerian.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Don’t you know?” She fiddled with some straw from the Cart.

“What, Willow?” asked Boy.

She looked up, into his eyes. “I thought you could have guessed. You should know. You were alone for so long. All those years on the street, that you can’t even properly remember now. And then you found Valerian, or rather he found you.”

She glanced up to check that Valerian was still busy in discussion with the coachman.

“And he’s awful,” she whispered. “He beats you; he ignores you; he’s unpleasant and ungrateful and foul. And yet you stay with him. Why?”

“Because I…,” said Boy. “Because I want to be with someone.”

“Exactly,” said Willow, and looked over the side of the cart at the buildings going by. “I want to be with you,” she said, but not loud enough for Boy to hear.

They rode toward the City wall.

Valerian struggled to sit back down, having got little joy from the driver over their journey and its destination. Boy lent a hand to Valerian and helped him sit.

Valerian grunted with pain.

“Gods! It’s cold this morning,” he muttered.

“Look, here are some blankets,” said Willow, rummaging under the side benches that were supposed to provide seating. She pulled out two large, moth-eaten blankets, and they were grateful for them.

Willow spread one over Valerian and tucked it under him.

“Thank you, Willow,” he said, and shut his eyes as they bounced on through the City.

Willow and Boy spread the other blanket around them as best they could. They chewed slowly on the bread and carrots, grateful for some food, but Boy’s mind was on other things. The cart was too exposed. Anyone could look at them, and at any moment he expected to see a gang of red- or pink-plumed Watchmen come charging down the street after them. But they were just another small cart with some human cargo winding its way through the City, a scene that was occurring a thousand times in every corner of the vast metropolis. No one paid them the slightest attention. No one could tell that the three figures in the back of this particular cart were engaged in a most unusual and deadly history.

It took the rest of the morning for the cart to get to the City gates. It was painfully cold now, and they huddled in the back of the cart under the blankets. As they passed under the massive arch of the South Gate, the first few feeble flakes of snow fell.