There on the floor of the barracks, the children lay and waited for morning. Sleep was fitful and many remained awake well after midnight. But the human mind, as we know, is a complex organism. There are only so many hours it will allow you to contemplate the unfathomable before switching off like a mobile phone when the battery has run low. When this happens, there is not much you can do about it. Eventually, the children stopped both thinking and crying and fell into an exhausted sleep.
M
illi woke to a snuffling in her hair and something like a moist sponge nudging her cheek. She opened one eye to see the face of a large Alsatian looking down at her. In her state of semi-wakefulness Milli mistook the dog for Stench, rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. But the dog whipped her blanket off, pawing and barking at her until she had no choice but to get up.
She looked around to see other dogs bounding on beds and shaking the rest of the children awake. It wasn’t long before they had roused the whole barracks. When everybody
had struggled to their feet, the deadpan voice crackled through the speaker again.
‘Rise and shine! It is currently one minute past five and just after Question Time. All new recruits are to report immediately to the mess hall. I repeat, all recruits to the mess hall immediately.’
A ghastly serving of Kransky sausages and watery gruel awaited them at breakfast. For those of you who do not know, Kranskies are a type of Russian sausage the width of a baseball bat and dotted with lumps of fat the size of golf balls. Kranskies are stodgy food at the best of times, let alone first thing in the morning. When the children emerged from the mess hall after picking at their breakfast, a fired-up Oslo was waiting for them on horseback.
‘Today’s program,’ he began, projecting his voice as if the children were miles away instead of standing right in front of him, ‘will start with a morning drill. Camp duties will follow and I have put a rostrum up in the hall.’
‘What’s a rostrum?’ Milli muttered under her breath.
‘He means roster,’ Ernest said.
Oslo looked down at his palm a few times while speaking, and some of the more alert children saw he had jotted down key points he wanted to make in case they slipped his mind. Oslo’s speech was made funnier by his emphatic pause each time he used a word intended to impress.
‘You have been aligned [assigned]…teams that will be responsible for the upheave [upkeep]…of different areas. Kitchen staff will issue you with sandy [sundry]…cleaning equipment. At precisely ten o’clock there will be an inspection of the troops. I expect you to make a favourable impression. When the officious [official]…party arrives, be sure to stand to attention and do not speak unless spoken to. Your
real
training will begin after this. Now, displace [disperse]!’
The children cleared tables, swept floors and washed undergarments by pounding them with a stone in one of the troughs. Then came a disorderly session of formal marching. Oslo put them through a series of routines that required them to straighten their shoulders and lift their knees until they were almost level with their chests. They were required to lie on their backs and kick their legs from side to side as an exercise for
developing ‘burly buttocks’. Eighty star jumps were performed for ‘steely sinews’; sixty push-ups for ‘formidable forearms’; and one hundred and twenty sit-ups for ‘murderous midriffs’. They were then required to spin around in circles for apparently no purpose at all until Oslo made some reference to the importance of balance on the battlefield.
Oslo himself spent the entire time on horseback, hurling invectives rather than incentives at them. It is not easy to achieve optimum performance with your trainer addressing you as: puny slugs, puking midgets, bumbling sparrows, cream puffs, prissy princesses, candy-sucking ballerinas, mollycoddled measles or dimwits in diapers.
It was close to ten when the warm-up and abuse were finally over. Most of the children collapsed to the ground, only to be ordered up again by an unsympathetic Oslo and made to assemble in rows for the formal inspection.
‘Feet together, shoulders back, tidy that hair, straighten your tunics!’
If Milli wasn’t mistaken, Oslo seemed a little agitated. Obviously his reputation rested on the impression they created.
When the official party arrived, the children recognised two figures they now knew to completely mistrust. Federico Lampo, in full ringmaster uniform and still holding his whip, strode past them accompanied by a huge woman at least a foot taller than him and possibly ten years his senior. Her detestation of children was so palpable in her expression that it made their skin prickle just to lay eyes on her. This woman, I am sorry to inform you, was the sort of female who if you were a Nubian goat would make you want to chomp your way through an entire fence in order to avoid her, if you were a panther to climb the highest tree to literally save your skin, and if you were a caterpillar to do your darndest to transform prematurely into a butterfly so as to flutter as far away from her as possible. Alas, she was the Contessa Augusta Bombasta, the personage Lampo had introduced at the start of the ill-fated matinee performance.
The Contessa sneered down at the children. The miniature dog in the crook of her arm gnashed its tiny teeth and the little fur that was left on its shorn body stood on end. Bombasta’s pooch was as pink as a piglet except for the bits of fur left as
booties on its feet and the pom-pom on its tail. With its narrow snout and spindly legs, it looked more like an oversized rat than any canine species. Its toenails had been French manicured and the name
Muffy-Boo
was spelt out in diamantes on a purple collar around its neck. The Contessa sang to the pooch in sugary tones:
Muffy-Boo, don’t feel blue
Mama will find you things to chew.
Muffy-Boo, where are you?
Fancy a game of peekaboo?
Perhaps it was as a result of this kind of pampering that Muffy-Boo had become delusional about both his size and ferocity. He seemed to think he possessed the same capabilities as a guard dog and instead of scolding him when he growled (as any responsible pet owner would do) Bombasta did everything to encourage and incite hostility in the creature.
‘That’s the way, mash them to a pulp, Muffy-Boo,’ she cooed. ‘Go for the jugular.’
With Lampo trotting effeminately beside her, Bombasta conducted an inspection of the troops.
She walked importantly down the rows, chatting casually with Oslo as she went. When Bombasta spoke she had a habit of drawling out syllables so that her sentences took twice as long to say. It was as though she believed she had all the time in the world to while away as she chose.
‘I imagine you children cannot believe your luck, having a genius like Federico Lampo take you under his wing,’ she said. ‘As Patroness of the Arts, I know all about his company. If it weren’t for this wonderful little man, the artistic world would be as dead as my pet ermine and I should have nothing to be patroness of!’
The loose skin of the Contessa’s neck swung when she was impassioned so that she resembled a frill-necked lizard. Her smugness was too much for Milli who could not curb her outburst.
‘The Lampo Circus was nothing but a sham! Nothing but a bunch of kidnappers!’
Bombasta clapped her hands over Lampo’s ears, as if to shield him from the pain of such hurtful remarks, and sucked her lips in prunelike with disapproval.
‘Silence, you beastly juvenile! Such impertinence! One more word and I shall have
you wrapped in pond weed and fed to the piranhas in my lake! What would be the expense of that, Ledger?’
To everyone’s surprise, a weedy man in a grey suit appeared as if from beneath the bustle of Bombasta’s skirts. He was so diminutive he had been completely concealed behind the Contessa’s expansive haunches. But it was not Mr Ledger’s lack of stature I wish to draw your attention to. The important thing to tell you is that Mr Ledger was Bombasta’s accountant.
Like many accountants who do not spend sufficient time in the sun, he was gingery all over, with pasty skin the colour and texture of lumpy porridge. He had sharp, ferret teeth, mottled ears and even his eyes glowed an unsightly orange. He had no mouth but simply a coin slot through which he now answered his employer.
‘There are the transportation costs of getting the child to the venue,’ he said, pushing buttons on his calculator and talking more to himself than anyone else.
‘The pond weed is, of course, complimentary but there is the problem of having to
replace
the offending child to compensate Mr Lampo’s loss.
That should prove trifling, however. All in all, I think it would be very doable.’
‘And well worth the trouble if it means one less parasite in the world!’ Bombasta cried, clapping her hands. ‘Why anyone would refer to children as a blessing is a complete mystery to me.’
The children could not help but shuffle a few feet backwards; firstly because the Contessa seemed quite genuine in her suggestion about the piranhas, and secondly because the amount of perfume she had doused herself with was so overpowering they feared they might keel over.
Fortunately, it was in Federico Lampo’s interest to preserve them from piranhas for the time being.
‘Come now, Augusta,’ he placated her. ‘It may be prudent to wait until after the battle before disposing of the army. Then you may turn them into wall hangings for all I care.’
‘Well, that would be most appropriate.’ Bombasta snorted with delight. ‘I am, after all, Patroness of the Arts and one can never have too many wall hangings. Ledger, how sound an investment are wall hangings in the current climate?’
Bored with their inspection, the Contessa and Lampo moved a few paces aside and became engrossed in their own private conversation whilst Ledger made frantic calculations. Oslo was left at a loss as to what was required of him next, so he stared fixedly into the distance.
As the adults made no attempt to lower their voices, Milli and Ernest found themselves able to eavesdrop with minimal effort.
‘I am most put out. You have been neglecting me, Lampo,’ Bombasta said with a pout. ‘I shouldn’t like to set Muffy-Boo on you.’
A snap of her fingers brought Mr Ledger back to her side.
‘Fifty-five pounds to have the carpet steam-cleaned once Muffy-Boo has finished,’ the accountant responded promptly.
‘I’ve been very busy, Your Grace,’ Lampo confessed. ‘The Master keeps me on my toes.’
‘Sixty-five pounds to clean up after the Master has been devoured,’ shrilled Mr Ledger, who was on a roll.
Lampo yelped as though he had been stung by a jellyfish. ‘Jipperty-jippers, don’t talk about
the Master like that! You never know where his spies may be.’
Four ravens that had been perched on the camp gates flew off in unison and headed in the direction of the jade citadel. Lampo shuddered as he watched them.
‘Calm yourself, Feddy,’ Bombasta said. ‘The Master will be much pleased. Battalion Minor is well under way and the gladiator is training the brats off their feet.’
Lampo took a deep breath and exhaled in relief. ‘I hope you are right.’
‘Of course I am right!’ Bombasta declared. ‘I am always right! I do so love it when we agree.’
Just then an elderly woman shuffled out of the kitchens bearing a tray of refreshments for the visitors. It was Nonna Luna, Federico Lampo’s grandmother. Milli and Ernest watched her shake her head sadly at Lampo and Bombasta, put the tray down and make the sign of the cross behind their backs.
Lampo did not acknowledge his grandmother, so engrossed was he in listening to Bombasta’s advice.
When she could stand being ignored no longer, Nonna Luna became emboldened enough to draw a tub of homemade meatballs from her apron and placed it in her grandson’s hand. She tucked a bib into his shirtfront and presented him with a fork.
‘Not now, Nonna!’ Lampo hissed as he tried to shake her off. ‘You are embarrassing me in front of my friends.’ He pushed the container back at her and made light of the intrusion by feigning amusement.
Contessa Bombasta wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Haven’t you had that old crone committed yet?’ she demanded loudly.
Nonna Luna shuffled away wearing a martyred expression and Lampo shrugged apologetically at Bombasta.
‘Save them for later,’ he called after his grandmother, not so much to make amends for his rudeness, but to ensure his meatballs did not fall into the wrong hands.
Nonna Luna’s appearance had allowed the children a brief opportunity to confer. Finn and Fennel chewed absently on stalks of
wheat, looking too detached for Milli’s liking.
‘Bombasta and Lampo are up to no good,’ she said. ‘It’s what they want with us that I can’t figure out.’
‘They’re always plotting something,’ the twins said lamely.
‘What about the authorities? Why don’t they investigate? You can’t kidnap children and keep them against their will without someone noticing.’
‘In the Conjurors’ Realm,’ Fennel explained, ‘those with power make the rules.’
‘But who ensures the rules are not abused?’ Ernest asked.
‘Oh, we have a police force but they’re under strict instructions to patrol only the Clover Fields.’
‘Why on earth are they doing that?’ said Ernest.
‘Because that is the most important job of all,’ replied Fennel matter-of-factly. ‘To protect the four-leafed clovers from being stolen.’
‘They hardly ever go near the city,’ her brother added. ‘If you report a robbery or a mysterious disappearance, they’ll more than likely tell you to buzz off. But a clover theft report…’
‘They’d be releasing the hounds,’ Fennel finished.
‘But that makes no sense!’ Milli objected.
‘No,’ Fennel agreed. ‘But we didn’t say it did.’
Ernest was forced to reach a grim conclusion. ‘It means that if Bombasta chooses to feed the lot of us to her piranhas, there’s not a thing anyone can do about it.’