She ran. She went up the corner, hooking her fingers, leaning back on her arms, and as she mounted his voice came again: I’ll meet you in the cave if we make it.
A wooden parapet circled the roof. She flopped over behind a row of ferns growing in tubs and lay catching her breath. Then she parted the fronds and looked at the wooden room squatting on the palace like a frog. The near-side window was barred and covered. What was inside? Frogs and toads? Had Vosper shifted them from the building by the cliff? He grew up in a swamp, she thought, so he brings the swamp with him. It made her shiver. Everything about the Limping Man made her shiver.
She circled the building below window height. There was a narrow door in the front. She turned the handle cautiously. It was locked, and barred on the inside, she guessed. She went to the back, away from the barracks, and risked looking in a window. It took a moment for her eyes to get used to the change of light. Then she saw a shallow trough running the length of the room. A row of cages stood opposite. If this was a toad-house the frogs and baby mice used as food would be kept there. Where were the toads? She looked at the trough again. Rocks rose from the water. It took her a moment to see that toads sat motionless on them, like rocks themselves. Their skins were mottled green with a red stripe down the back. Their sticky pads rested in front like human hands and their eyes, bulging with knowledge, never moved. She wondered if
they
ever moved, then saw others about the room, in corners and along the base of the cages. A small one – she gave a yelp – was watching her from the sill inside the mesh covering the window.
Hana backed away and crawled to her hiding place by the parapet. Toads, she thought. He brings the swamp with him. When would he feed them? She hoped no one would come to water the ferns.
Ben, she thought. She wanted to tell him what she had seen. She whispered his name. No answer came. She did not dare ‘speak’ loudly, not this close to the Limping Man.
Hunger began to trouble her. She drank water. The sun climbed but the drooping fernleaves kept her cool. The regular footsteps of the sentries became almost comforting.
She timed the hours. The palace stayed silent, until, at mid-morning, a rumbling came from deep in the building. She crept to a window. Her eye caught a movement in a narrow alcove in the front wall. Ropes were moving through pulleys fixed inside. Then she almost cried out: the Limping Man appeared. First his head, with his pink mouth smiling dreamily. His head-dress was gone. He wore a skull-cap on his wispy hair. His body, rising in the alcove, was swathed in a red cloak with a high collar. He rested on his stick as the platform rumbled up, and leaned on it stepping into the room.
Hana crouched, working out what to do. He would be busy at the cages, then with the toads. The back window was the safest place. She shifted there and when she looked again the Limping Man had leaned his stick against a cage door and was approaching the trough, with a struggling frog in each hand. His left side dipped at every step, he seemed on the point of falling, but his mouth kept its dreamy smile and his voice spoke liltingly: ‘Breakfast, my lovely ones. Nice fat frogs for breakfast. See how Vosper loves you.’ He held each frog by a back leg and dangled them over two large toads basking on the rocks. They raised themselves slightly. Each shot out a tongue the length of its body. For a moment the frogs bulged in their throats, then were gone. The Limping Man laughed. ‘Juicy ones,’ he said.
Hana crouched below the window. She imagined herself rushing into the room and killing the Limping Man the way she had killed the bounty hunter. But the bars were strong, there was no way in. She looked again. He was feeding mice to the toads, holding them by their tails and offering them. The sticky tongues shot out and sprang back. The mice vanished. The Limping Man sang a little trill of delight.
If Ben was here he would find a way in. He would throw his knife and it would be over. Ben, she thought. The Limping Man gave a start. He lifted his hand and smacked the side of his head. Hana crouched. Her thought had touched him as though a fly had escaped from a cage and settled on his hair.
She must keep Ben out of her mind – everything out of her mind. She lay below the window, listening as he resumed the feeding of his toads. The cage doors creaked, his feet shuffled unevenly across the room. He took a long time. She heard him humming with enjoyment.
Say something, Vosper. Tell me your secret, she thought.
The sounds stopped. He had heard again. A toad splashed in the pool.
‘Ma,’ the Limping Man whispered, ‘don’t torment me.’ He shuffled partway across the room. Hana rose on her knees and looked over the sill. The Limping Man was reaching out. He wanted his stick. Was that it? Was the secret of his strength in the carved stick?
‘Ma,’ he said again, ‘you know what it is.’
He took another half dozen steps, grabbed the stick and leaned on it – and Hana waited, she had no idea what for. Something like a thunderclap? For his strength to roll over her like a wave? There was nothing. No change. He had needed his stick to save himself from falling, that was all.
He leaned on it and rested against the cages.
‘You wanted to tell them, Ma, so I had to kill you.’ He banged his stick on the floor. ‘Betray me, would you, for a pigeon? You should have swallowed mud like Jug. You should have burned.’ His pink face flushed with rage. Again he banged the stick. ‘For an eel! A pigeon! No love, Ma. So you die. Go away now. Lie in the mud with Jug. Only my toads love me.’ He made three steps towards the trough. ‘So, my lovely ones, I bring fat mice and juicy frogs. And tomorrow I will burn some witches for you. That will be good. And when my armies march, the swamps and jungles will be yours.’
He laughed again. ‘So go away, Ma. Vosper doesn’t need you any more.’
Hana kept her thoughts quiet, even though he was so pleased with himself she doubted he had room to hear. He reached the tank. ‘The world is ours, my lovelies. Lord Vosper of the Swamp. What banquets we will have. What burnings we will have.’
He stroked his finger down the red lightning flash on the back of the nearest toad. It watched him with its bulging eyes. How could he love these creatures? All they wanted was food, Hana thought. They would eat him too if he were small enough.
She stopped watching and lay below the window. Soon she heard the squeak of pulleys as the Limping Man sank into his palace. Light rain started to fall. She turned on her back and let it wash her. Wet on her face, cool on her face.
It was not enough to wash away the toads. And nothing would wash away the Limping Man.
The distance from the scrub to the palace door was too far. Ben wanted his throw to be hard and flat. A better place was in the scrub beside the path. But Vosper would be riding in his litter, with the curtains closed and guards on either side.
He crept back and forth several times. The door? The path? And when would Vosper come out of his palace? Perhaps not until the burnings tomorrow. Ben would snare some scrub quail if he had to wait that long, and go back to the cave for water. Hana would be down from the roof. He would leave her at the cave, tell her to get away – if she came down. He had a sick feeling she would not. It took him some time to shake it away.
He chose the door and settled in the scrub just off the lawn. Soft rain fell. He lay on his back and opened his mouth, catching drips from the leaves. Once he thought he heard her whisper his name, then decided he had been dreaming. There was no way she could come down until the sentries changed.
Hana, he thought. She was the strangest girl – the strangest person – he had known. It wasn’t only that she was happiest alone – he understood that. It wasn’t that she knew almost none of the things he knew. She had grown up in the burrows, how could she know? It was – he thought about it – that she wanted nothing. She was enough for herself. Like me, he thought; then knew he was wrong. He wanted her.
At first he had thought she was ugly, because of her eyes flecked with gold. Because of her thinness and wiriness. He liked plump girls. Now he liked Hana: her eyes and brown skin and hands as strong as his – and two of them where he had only one. He remembered her at the forest creek, without her clothes. One day, working in the gardens outside the village, he had seen Jed from the fishing boats walk by into the trees. Minnie slipped away from the bean rows after him. Ben followed. He saw what they did. From that day he had been ready himself. Was Hana ready? How could he find out a thing like that?
He lay with water dripping on his face. Stop, he thought, or you’ll throw crooked when Vosper comes. He rolled on to his front and watched the palace door.
The rain stopped, the clouds melted and soon the stone path across the lawn steamed in the heat. The even tread of the sentry almost put Ben to sleep. It was a moment before he saw that the door had opened. A small man in black appeared like an insect from a hole. He raised his hand and a squad of soldiers assembled in front of the barracks. Four men in shining helmets and leather jerkins came out – the bearers. They opened double doors in another building, carried out the litter and set it on the grass, where the little man inspected it, fussing with the curtains. A squad of soldiers escorted them to the palace door.
Ben took out his knife and held it ready. He calculated the distance. It was too far. Unless he could get closer the knife would have to travel in an arc. But the soldiers had their crossbows armed. They would have a dozen bolts in him before he had gone five steps.
The crier came from the palace door and blew a trumpet blast. The Limping Man appeared – too far away, too far. Yet this was the closest Ben had seen him. Everything was the way Hana had described: the small face, the pink mouth, the watery eyes. The limp. The stick. The ceremonial robes that made him look like someone burning in a fire. For a moment he was clear in Ben’s sight and if he threw from the edge of the scrub there was a chance. Only Hari and Duro, and Tarl the Dog King, who was dead, had knife skills equal to his. He edged closer in the scrub – but the moment had gone. The crier stepped across, and a second small man in black was also in the way. Ben sank into the wet bushes. He swore at himself – fisherman’s curses. Hari and Duro would not have missed the chance.
He went deeper into the scrub, circling back to the path where it crossed the overgrown road. There was an easy throw there, he could hit Vosper where he chose – chest, throat or eye. But would the litter be open? A blind throw through the curtains was no use. He had to be certain of a kill.
Another trumpet blast came, followed by the tramp of feet on the path. Ben drew back. The scrub had wet his hand but the knife blade was dry and he was confident of his grip. Four soldiers appeared, marching in step. The crier followed. He was the biggest man Ben had ever seen. His naked sword shone like glass, his trumpet bounced on his hard belly as he walked. The little men in black pranced on either side of the litter.
The curtains were closed. They hung limp, almost brushing the path. And they were heavy. They would smother the knife before it passed through. And where was Vosper anyway? He might be lying down in there. He might be sleeping.
Ben waited until the soldiers at the back went from sight. The sentry, who had knelt beside the path as the litter passed, resumed his patrolling. Ben retreated deep into the scrub. He saw now what he must do. There was only one throw he could make. He planned it, played it over: the palace door, the moment Vosper stepped from the litter . . . The only question was, when would he come back?
The scrub dried out. Ben grew hungrier. He dug with his knife round the roots of a tree and found grubs. They were bitter and he spat them out. He wondered if Hana was hungry. He wondered if she was still alive. Would he have felt it if the Limping Man had killed her?
Midday. He crept back and looked at the palace. Vosper had grown up in the middle of a swamp but even so he should have built a better place than this. It was like a palace a child might draw – a box with a single door and flames painted on the sides. Maybe when he ruled the world he would build something better. But he’s not going to rule the world, Ben thought.
Hana, he whispered. Silence. Heavy silence under the burning sun. He’s got her, he thought. He’ll burn her tomorrow with Blossom in the square. He stopped himself from running at the door to break it down.
A trumpet sounded distantly, jerking him back into good sense. The sentries circling the palace heard it too. They stood straighter and walked with a firmer step. He had not gone far, the Limping Man, just to the place called Ceebeedee. Ben checked his line of sight to the door. He cleaned a crumb of dirt off the blade of his knife.
The trumpet blew again, at the top of the path leading down to the city. In a moment the tread of marching men sounded on the paving stones. The first squad of four appeared, followed by the crier, who blew again, making Ben’s ears ring. The sentries stood to attention, one at each corner of the palace. The litter, red as fire, threaded out of the scrub. The bearers marched to the palace door and lowered
it to the ground.
Ben checked his distance again. He would have to step out, get free of the scrub in a single step and make his throw. He visualised his knife the way Hari had taught him – saw its flight and the amount of height it would lose. He was ready.
The soldiers stood with their bows half raised. The crier walked to the door. The two men in black held the litter curtains, their white hands curled in the cloth. The crier banged the door with his sword handle.
‘Open for the Limping Man,’ he bellowed.
The door swung wide. The attendants at the litter pulled the curtains apart and the Limping Man put out his stick.
Not yet, Ben said. Wait until he’s standing up. At this distance it had to be the middle of his chest.
The Limping Man struggled down. For a moment he was clear in Ben’s sight – his white face, his damp eyes. His headdress was like a rooster’s comb, his robes, embroidered with flames, wrapped him round. One of the flames pointed at his heart.