paper, pausing to consider his words. Kepler sprinkled the letter with sand, then folded up the paper and started to melt some sealing wax. As he dripped bloodred wax onto the letter and pressed his ring into it, he said, “Take this to him.” Without looking up from what he was doing, he added, “And may God protect his own.”
There was something odd in his manner that Boy remembered. And when Valerian had read that letter, his mood had sunk. That letter was when it had really started.
At about two o’clock Boy stopped at the top of Pigeon Pie Alley. At the far end of the street stood the Trumpet. All hell was breaking loose inside.
Oh, just perfect!
thought Boy.
9
Korp stared at the stage, watching the ghost.
At first he thought it must be the Dark Duke. An old theater legend told how the ghost of the Dark Duke would stalk across the stage as a portent of disaster. History related how, years ago, the theater had relied on the duke for financial backing. If he didn’t like the work the theater was producing, he would storm across the stage during rehearsal, sometimes even during a performance. One day he had tried to stop a rehearsal and was stabbed by the lead actor, a touchy man at the best of times, whose brother had written the play in question. Since then the Dark Duke appeared at times of impending crisis, though he had not been seen in many, many years.
The theater was in trouble. Korp had seen so many strange things in his life that he was superstitious enough to believe that. There could be no mistake about it. The only question was when the trouble would strike.
In fact Korp was mistaken. He had only been watching the ghost for a few moments when it disappeared, leaving behind a slight cloud of dust that hung in the air, glowing.
A second later, Korp heard something behind him.
The thing slashed at Korp and he fell forward, one arm and his head across the edge of the box, dying.
10
Boy hovered at the end of Pigeon Pie Alley, trying to decide what to do. He knew he didn’t really have any choice. If Valerian wanted him to go into the Trumpet and meet a big, ugly man called Green, then he would have to do it. It was just that he didn’t want to.
There was obviously a fight going on inside. He waited, hoping things would settle down, but after a little while he thought,
No-go now
. Perhaps everyone in the tavern would be too busy to notice him; he could slip in and take a look around without being seen. Besides, he was freezing. At least inside he’d be warm for a while, and get away from the smell of the river just a street or two away.
As he approached the Trumpet the sound of tables breaking and bottles being smashed grew louder. The inn was really rough. There was no longer a sign with its name outside-its reputation spoke for it. There was grimy glass in some of the windows, though not all. The way into the Trumpet was down a claustrophobic alley that lay in the gloom between the buildings. Boy glanced in through a window as he headed down the alley. Things were getting lively, to say the least. He took one last gulp of the foul river air, and went inside.
The noise immediately seemed ten times louder, and if the stink was bad in the street, it was worse still inside. The whole place was a lurid riot of color, sound and smell compared to the darkness of the winter streets. For a minute Boy thought he might be sick. His head swam and he looked for a place to lurk.
Surprisingly, considering the mayhem, the fight seemed to be between only two men. The bulk of the din came from the people watching, who were cheering, shouting and fighting amongst themselves.
Boy picked his way to a small table half hidden in the space under the staircase that led upstairs.
“Beer, love?”
He looked up to see a barmaid staring at him expectantly. She held a tray of empty beer jugs in one hand and was piling short, stubby glasses up with the other.
“Well?”
Damn!
thought Boy.
Money. I didn’t think of
There was something odd in his manner that Boy remembered. And when Valerian had read that letter, his mood had sunk. That letter was when it had really started.
At about two o’clock Boy stopped at the top of Pigeon Pie Alley. At the far end of the street stood the Trumpet. All hell was breaking loose inside.
Oh, just perfect!
thought Boy.
9
Korp stared at the stage, watching the ghost.
At first he thought it must be the Dark Duke. An old theater legend told how the ghost of the Dark Duke would stalk across the stage as a portent of disaster. History related how, years ago, the theater had relied on the duke for financial backing. If he didn’t like the work the theater was producing, he would storm across the stage during rehearsal, sometimes even during a performance. One day he had tried to stop a rehearsal and was stabbed by the lead actor, a touchy man at the best of times, whose brother had written the play in question. Since then the Dark Duke appeared at times of impending crisis, though he had not been seen in many, many years.
The theater was in trouble. Korp had seen so many strange things in his life that he was superstitious enough to believe that. There could be no mistake about it. The only question was when the trouble would strike.
In fact Korp was mistaken. He had only been watching the ghost for a few moments when it disappeared, leaving behind a slight cloud of dust that hung in the air, glowing.
A second later, Korp heard something behind him.
The thing slashed at Korp and he fell forward, one arm and his head across the edge of the box, dying.
10
Boy hovered at the end of Pigeon Pie Alley, trying to decide what to do. He knew he didn’t really have any choice. If Valerian wanted him to go into the Trumpet and meet a big, ugly man called Green, then he would have to do it. It was just that he didn’t want to.
There was obviously a fight going on inside. He waited, hoping things would settle down, but after a little while he thought,
No-go now
. Perhaps everyone in the tavern would be too busy to notice him; he could slip in and take a look around without being seen. Besides, he was freezing. At least inside he’d be warm for a while, and get away from the smell of the river just a street or two away.
As he approached the Trumpet the sound of tables breaking and bottles being smashed grew louder. The inn was really rough. There was no longer a sign with its name outside-its reputation spoke for it. There was grimy glass in some of the windows, though not all. The way into the Trumpet was down a claustrophobic alley that lay in the gloom between the buildings. Boy glanced in through a window as he headed down the alley. Things were getting lively, to say the least. He took one last gulp of the foul river air, and went inside.
The noise immediately seemed ten times louder, and if the stink was bad in the street, it was worse still inside. The whole place was a lurid riot of color, sound and smell compared to the darkness of the winter streets. For a minute Boy thought he might be sick. His head swam and he looked for a place to lurk.
Surprisingly, considering the mayhem, the fight seemed to be between only two men. The bulk of the din came from the people watching, who were cheering, shouting and fighting amongst themselves.
Boy picked his way to a small table half hidden in the space under the staircase that led upstairs.
“Beer, love?”
He looked up to see a barmaid staring at him expectantly. She held a tray of empty beer jugs in one hand and was piling short, stubby glasses up with the other.
“Well?”
Damn!
thought Boy.
Money. I didn’t think of
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