The Silver Blade (14 page)
‘I don’t,’ replied Kalliovski. ‘I don’t believe the Governor of the Universe had anything to do with it. It is purely by the power of chance that the world is here at all. What say you to that?’
Anselm was out of his depth. He had never been involved in this sort of conversation. If it was a test he felt certain he was going to fail.
‘All I know about religion comes from my mother and she believes in God and all the saints. She believes in purgatory and hell.’ He added, more to himself than anyone else, ‘She thinks that’s where I’m going.’
‘And if I told you there are no such places,’ asserted Count Kalliovski, ‘that it is the Church’s plot against the people, nothing more, what would you say?’
Anselm thought, that’s what Pa believed. He was all for getting rid of the Church. He said if the Revolution hadn’t banned it, he might not have been as free with his pig-killing knife and would have worried more about what might happen to him when he was dead.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know, but if it is by chance that the world is here, as you say, then maybe there’s a good chance that hell exists too.’
To Anselm’s great relief Count Kalliovski’s reply had a hint of laughter in it, though his face remained waxwork smooth.
‘You have potential,’ he said. ‘Would you like to work for me?’
‘Yes,’ said Anselm. His puppy-like enthusiasm made Mr Tull wince.
‘When do I start?’
Kalliovski glanced at him.
Anselm felt something push down on his shoulders, an invisible force. His legs gave way under the pressure and he found himself on his knees.
‘You will do what I say, or you will be killed, do you understand?’
Kalliovski inclined his hand in its red kid glove, a sign that Anselm was dismissed. Milkeye helped him up and took him from the chamber, leaving only Mr Tull.
From the window the artificial glow of golden afternoon light flooded into the room and the reassuring sound of bird song could be heard from the cages hidden behind the painted flats.
‘A nightingale,’ said Kalliovski.
Mr Tull had been dreading this meeting. He had told himself repeatedly that if his master took Anselm on he would speak out. He was determined to ask if he might be allowed to retire.
‘Now tell me about Sido de Villeduval.’
Mr Tull, hands behind his back, feet squarely apart, started. ‘The Laxtons live in Queen Square, in Blooms-bury. The house is well-staffed and is a meeting place for many of the emigres newly—’
‘That interests me little. Tell me of the Marquise Sido.’
‘She is well cared for by her aunt and uncle. They are keen that she should master English and to that end she has lessons with a Mr Trippen, an actor. She is taken to his house in Maiden Lane by sedan chair twice a week and is always accompanied by two servants. This same Mr Trippen taught Yann Margoza.’
Mr Tull, somewhat relieved that his other little enterprise appeared to be undiscovered and feeling braver, said, ‘I wonder if after this business I might be able to retire. It’s just that…’
He didn’t finish what he had to say, for Kalliovski’s look of pure rage was enough to silence him.
‘Once you work for me there is no retirement other than your own demise. You will await further instructions. When the time is right you will bring Sido de Villeduval here. Until then you are dismissed.’
B
ack in the shop, Mr Tull, feeling the weight of hell upon his shoulders, said to Milkeye, ‘Balthazar seems even bigger than when I last saw him.’
ack in the shop, Mr Tull, feeling the weight of hell upon his shoulders, said to Milkeye, ‘Balthazar seems even bigger than when I last saw him.’
Milkeye turned his one good eye on Tull. ‘Our master knows what you do. He knows that you and the butcher and his boy had a very profitable sideline, don’t think he doesn’t.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Mr Tull, an icy sweat breaking out on his forehead.
Milkeye laughed. ‘You’re walking on the edge, my friend. One false move and you will be Balthazar’s next feast.’
Mr Tull had the decidedly uncomfortable feeling that his bones might already have been reserved for the design of a chandelier or mirror.
Milkeye followed him on to the street where Mr Tull breathed in the night air.
‘Do you know why he still wants Sido de Villeduval?’ he asked.
‘If I were you I wouldn’t want to know. I’ll tell you this much: she’s not all my master is after.’ A slow smile spread over his face. The effect was even more gruesome than usual. ‘The Marquise de Villeduval is only one part of his plan.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Mr Tull, feeling a shudder run down his spine.
Milkeye leaned forward, towering over him. ‘This is much harder to come by - some say impossible, but such an indifferent word has never stopped the Count. He wants a key to a soul.’
Mr Tull looked down the rue des Couteaux with a longing to be gone from this madness and never return.
He thrust his shaking hands deep into his pockets. As he walked away he stumbled on a soft, unlikely thought. Under his breath he said, ‘Heaven help her. Heaven help all of us.’
Chapter Eleven
T
he leather box containing the key sat waiting on Remon Quint’s workbench. Even looking at it made his stomach churn. He regretted his lack of courage. He should have spoken out when he had the chance, told the man with the waxwork face and the poppy-red gloves that what he desired was impossible, that no man on earth had the power to make a key to a soul. Speak the truth and shame the devil! But he hadn’t. Instead he had listened, believing at first this was merely a rich man’s foible. After all, he’d worked with enough clients whose wealth was beyond the realms of most men’s understanding.
he leather box containing the key sat waiting on Remon Quint’s workbench. Even looking at it made his stomach churn. He regretted his lack of courage. He should have spoken out when he had the chance, told the man with the waxwork face and the poppy-red gloves that what he desired was impossible, that no man on earth had the power to make a key to a soul. Speak the truth and shame the devil! But he hadn’t. Instead he had listened, believing at first this was merely a rich man’s foible. After all, he’d worked with enough clients whose wealth was beyond the realms of most men’s understanding.
Usually flattery persuaded them to see that what they had purchased was unique, yet he had the feeling that this man was in deadly earnest. Flattery would never satisfy his desire. He wanted a key to a soul and nothing else would do.
The keymaker looked around his shabby apartment: a bedchamber, a workroom and a small anteroom. These poky, lopsided chambers were all he could afford now. It was stiflingly hot; the smell of rubbish and rotten meat wafted through his open window. Today there was no breeze, just an unbearable, claustrophobic, sticky heat that made everyone irritable. Below he could hear the cobbler and his wife bickering. He went to the cupboard and took out a half-empty bottle and a stale loaf, poured himself a glass of wine, carefully replaced the cork, broke off a piece of bread and said grace, as he always did. For all his new-found poverty, he remained a pious man. He took a sip of the wine and grimaced. It was sour.
B
efore the Revolution, when the power of prayer was believed in, his prayers had been answered. He had owned a shop in the fashionable rue du Labon district, had a fine carriage and servants, wore elegant clothes and wigs and was known for his hospitality. And he could boast that he had dined with the King of Keymakers, Louis XVI, whose obsession was labyrinthine locks. Oh, how he had picked his brains to know their secret. Those were golden days.
efore the Revolution, when the power of prayer was believed in, his prayers had been answered. He had owned a shop in the fashionable rue du Labon district, had a fine carriage and servants, wore elegant clothes and wigs and was known for his hospitality. And he could boast that he had dined with the King of Keymakers, Louis XVI, whose obsession was labyrinthine locks. Oh, how he had picked his brains to know their secret. Those were golden days.
He had entertained, held supper parties. When, with the dessert, he would bring out a mahogany toy guillotine, fashionable at the time, his guests delighted in taking turns to put little dolls under the knife and watch the miniature executions. The streams of red fluid that burst from them were merely perfume, to be caught on the handkerchiefs of giggling ladies.
How foolish to think nothing would change. Now everything was lost, ankle deep in blood.
T
he row between the cobbler and his wife had spilled into the courtyard. A man yelled at them from an upstairs window to shut up, otherwise they’d be for it.
he row between the cobbler and his wife had spilled into the courtyard. A man yelled at them from an upstairs window to shut up, otherwise they’d be for it.
Only a fool wouldn’t know what was meant by that remark, thought the keymaker. In this dog-eat-dog world everyone was food for the Tribunal, the tumbril and the guillotine. No man’s neck was safe.
The keymaker knew he was doomed. Maybe it would be best if he were arrested and taken to prison. His life was hanging by a thread, like a child’s tooth. One yank and it would be gone. At least in prison, he thought, there would be old friends to reminisce with, and he would be free at last to say what was on his mind. It would make no difference. The guillotine would be waiting to embrace him whether he kept quiet or not. Instead here he was, at liberty, but lonely and wretched, plagued by voices in his head. This was Death’s waiting room. Every time he heard a tread on the steps up to his apartment he told himself it was the Grim Reaper.
If only he’d had the wit to leave after the fall of the Bastille as so many of his clients had done, conveniently forgetting to pay their bills. But he hadn’t had the foresight to see what a revolution was capable of doing. He had agreed with those who were in favour of a constitutional monarchy. Once that was in place, the keymaker was sure it would be business as usual. In a time of such political upheaval, instead of keeping an eye on events, he had buried himself in his work and refused to read the signs. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that Paris could fall so low.
The toy guillotine had turned out to be no laughing matter. Its life-size version had sliced the heads off his most valuable customers, the Convention confiscating their property so there was no possibility of claiming the monies he was owed.
He had been forced to close his shop. There hadn’t been enough business to keep his fine house, his carriages or servants. He’d been told that his name was on a list of those suspected of having supplied the Duc d’Arlincourt with a lock for an iron chest in which pamphlets opposing the Republic had been discovered.
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