Marcus Sedgwick - The Book of Dead Days

“Mystery,” Boy panted as they sped along. “Mystery and preparation and… sorry.”

He stumbled on a cobblestone. Valerian dragged him, practically in the air, around a corner and into a side street. A shortcut home.

“What?” yelled Valerian. “Mystery and preparation and what ?”

“Direction?”

“ Mis direction, you goat!”

“Misdirection,” said Boy, and then before Valerian had a chance to shout again, “and practice and skill. Natural skill,” he added hurriedly.

Valerian grunted in satisfaction, but didn’t slow the pace. Boy stumbled after him, pulled sideways by the tails of his coat.

Up in the secret box after the show, Valerian had glared at Boy for a good long while, so there had been no doubt that Boy was in a great deal of trouble. Then he had dragged him out of the box, along the tiny passageway, down the stairs and out into the night without even bothering to collect the money for the performance. Boy had hardly had time to think, but a question was bothering him. Badly. It had taken him at least three minutes to get from the side of the stage up to the box. It had taken Valerian no more than a couple of seconds. At least, that was how it seemed, but Boy knew from experience not to trust anything he saw Valerian do. You could never be sure, not really.

They moved on through the City, Valerian clutching Boy’s coattails, looking, from a distance, like some strange beast. They were in Gutter Street. Although there were no street signs in this part of the City (it was much too down-at-heel for refinements like that), nevertheless Boy knew where he was. They passed the Green Bird Inn. Boy had been hoping they might stop for Valerian to have a drink or two. Or more. Then he might have forgotten about Boy’s slipup. But he strode by without even a glance at the tavern. Boy gulped and staggered on.

“All right then,” said Valerian. “And if you don’t observe the Five Principles you may as well just rely on luck, which is what you made us do tonight. Anyone half sober or with half a mind would have seen-”

“I’m sorry,” said Boy.

Valerian stopped suddenly and Boy ran into the back of him. He turned and looked down into Boy’s eyes.

“Sorry.”

“Well,” Valerian said, and his voice was suddenly quiet, “well, it’s not important. Really.”

He dropped Boy’s coattails and began to head for home, still walking fast.

Boy had been thrashed by Valerian before for much less than this. More confused than ever, he watched him go for a moment. Valerian’s tall figure, his longish gray hair flowing behind him, was about to disappear round another corner. Although Boy knew the area, he grew alarmed.

Unpleasant things had been happening in the City recently. Even in the better areas, horror was not unknown. There had been a spate of terrible murders, and the inns, taverns, salons and courts were full of talk of these crimes. The murders were remarkable for their particularly gory nature: with the bodies sometimes drained of blood. There were rumors of the ghastly apparition responsible-“The Phantom.” There had also been a series of grave-robbings in some of the many cemeteries around the huge City. Many people thought the two were linked.

“Hey!” Boy cried. “Wait for me!”

It was deep into the night, and they were now in one of the worst parts of the City. Nearly home.

Korp, the director of the theater, began closing up. Half an hour ago he had finally managed to throw the last drunken idiot out, and before the man had even hit the mud of the alley Korp had slammed the door after him. He didn’t have to worry about being too nice to his customers. They would come night after night, as long as Valerian kept doing that thing about fairies.

Director Korp sat for a while in his office, staring into space. He felt old and tired and fat, because he was. He daydreamed, remembering days when he had traveled the continent with the greatest show ever assembled. The show had included a giant, five midgets, a two-headed calf, a snake-woman, a disappearing lady, a levitating man, twin wild boys and many, many more. It was all far behind him, and though he missed the excitement of his youth, he had a theater to run now, and he would run it as best he could till the day he died.

On the walls around him hung portraits of some of the stars who had appeared in his theater. Cavallo the Great, a legendary magician. There was Grolsch, a famous escapologist whose career had come to an untimely end one night when he failed to escape, and Bertrand Black, a bear-tamer who had had a similarly rapid demise on stage. But all the faces were from days long gone, when things had been different, more lucrative.

Korp scratched his bald head for a minute or so, then, without looking down, put his hand into a drawer in the ornate desk at which he was sitting. He fumbled around, still without looking. He put his hand on his pistol, and shoved it aside. It wasn’t what he wanted.

“Yeush!” he said, with a frown. “Where’s it gone?”

Then he remembered the bottle he’d left in his “secret” box. Wearily he got to his feet and made his way down the darkened corridors backstage. As he passed one of the dressing rooms he noticed a light.

“Who’s there?” he called.

“Oh, Director,” said a voice from inside. “It is Madame.”

He stuck his head around the door.

“Ah!” he said. “Madame! Madame Beauchance! May I say how exquisitely you sang tonight!” He smiled a wide smile.

Madame Beauchance appeared to ignore this compliment.

“It will have to change,” she said.

“Madame?”

Now Korp noticed the girl, Beauchance’s assistant, kneeling at the singer’s feet and rubbing her ankles. The girl glanced up at him.

“Madame means…?” he began again.

“I mean,” said Madame, not even looking at Korp, “that I will not continue to appear in an inferior position. To that prestidigitator.”

Korp blinked.

He felt tired. He wanted to be in bed with Lily curled up around his feet. Lily was his dog.

“The magician,” whispered the girl, almost unheard.

“Exactly!” cried Madame Beauchance.

“Ah!” said Korp.

Valerian.

A little after midnight.

Boy had caught up with Valerian at the top of the next alley-a particularly nasty little gutter of a lane called Blind Man’s Stick, where the roof tiles of the buildings on either side were close enough to touch in places. Here and there it was possible to catch a glimpse of the night sky between them, but Boy was not interested in the stars. Not yet.

He clung tightly to Valerian as they made their way quickly along the foul-smelling culvert. A minute later they emerged into a relatively wide street. An open drain ran down its middle. Valerian stepped across it in a single stride. Boy, small for his years, leapt the gap and slipped as he landed.

He sat dazed in the stream, then, realizing where he was, leapt to his feet.

“Oh!” he said. “Ugh!” His bottom half was covered in unnameable filth.

“Ugh! Oh!”

Valerian did not even glance back.

Boy limped after him. They turned a corner and crossed a final street.

Valerian stopped for a moment at a wrought-iron gate let into a high stone wall. He rattled one of the big keys from his pocket in the lock, and shoved the gate open. Only now did he look back long enough to be sure Boy had got through the gate with him; then he swung it shut and rattled its lock one more time.

They were home.

Boy stood dripping, trying not to smell himself as he waited in the small walled courtyard that lay between the iron gate and the front door.