The Eyes Of A King Part 3

"I told you."

I could not speak. I tried to, but I could not.

"He only said it to make me cry," Stirling muttered.

At that I found my voice again and began shouting.

"Leo, stop it," Stirling said. "Don't shout at me. Don't swear like that." He looked close to crying again. "Leo, please. This is why I didn't want to tell you."

"Sorry." I kicked hard at the snow in the gutter. It was frozen solid, and I only hurt my foot.

"You don't have to fight my battles for me, Leo," Stirling said, his voice still unsteady.

"How will you fight them if I don't?"

"The way you're supposed to."

"Which is what? Letting other people win? Turn the other cheek? Sometimes that's the wrong thing to do. People have to know when they're doing something bad." I glared at the ground. "Did he really say that?"

"Yes. Well, perhaps he didn't mean it to sound as bad. First he said, 'Don't think you're above becoming a soldier.' " His voice wobbled. "That's not what I thought. I never think I'm above anything."

"I know."

"Then he went on talking, and he said, 'You're lucky to have any chance in life at all, knowing what your parents were. Your father deserved worse than he got, making his money out of royalist ... royalist ...' "

"Propaganda?" I prompted him. I had heard these things before.

"Yes.... And he said, 'And your mother was no better than a prost.i.tute.' That's what he said. So he didn't mean that she was a prost.i.tute exactly."

I didn't speak. "She wasn't anything like that, was she?" asked Stirling tentatively.

"What?" I turned to him, grabbing his shoulder. "Stirling, you are clever enough to know that's a lie. She was a singer. A good singer-really good."

"And a dancer and all."

"Yes. But in theaters, not bars or anything. There's a difference between that and a prost.i.tute. Just because Sergeant Markey is a stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d ..." I realized that I was shaking his shoulder, and let it go. "She was a singer," I told him again.

"Oh. I can't remember her, that's all. And when people tell you something, you get to think that it's true."

"I know." I spoke more gently.

"Listen, Leo," he said. "Don't tell Grandmother. Please don't. It would make her so upset."

I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He was still shaking. "Here, let me give you my jacket," I said.

"No.... You don't even have an overcoat."

"It doesn't matter." I took off my jacket-regulation pale blue-gray-and wrapped it round his shoulders, on top of his coat. "Come on," I said. "The sooner we get home, the better."

When we got in, Grandmother fussed over Stirling, making him tea and putting him to bed. I sat by the fire and coughed and s.h.i.+vered. I had put on my jacket again, and my coat, but I was still cold. I stared into the fire, frowning.

Grandmother came back into the room, shutting the bedroom door behind her. "Sleeping," she whispered to me. She pulled her rocking chair close to the fire and sat down and began to sew together some squares of colored material, and she held them barely an inch from her face. She started humming. It irritated me. "All right, Leo?" she asked. I nodded. We never had much to say to each other. "I've put some soup on the stove," she said. I nodded again.

I watched the flames caper about the small pile of wood in the grate. It hurt my head to look at the brightness, and I shut my eyes, but I could still see colored spots blaring against my eyelids. And Grandmother went on humming, out of tune. I rested my head against my arms, and my arms on my knees. "I hope Stirling doesn't catch a chill," she said after a while.

"A chill?" I said, looking up sharply. "Did you see how he was s.h.i.+vering? He could catch more than a chill standing outside in the snow for three hours-"

"Don't shout at me about it, Leo," she said. She picked at the sewing without meeting my eyes.

"I'm not shouting," I said, lowering my voice. "And you are partly to blame. You think the teachers are angels of G.o.d who can do no wrong. He made Stirling cry! That b.a.s.t.a.r.d Markey is constantly bullying him-"

"Leo."

"Stop interrupting me!" I was shouting now. It made my own head ache, but somehow that made me shout louder. "Something has to be done. He made Stirling cry!"

"What was Stirling crying about?" she said, putting down the sewing.

I stopped then. I had promised not to tell her. I shrugged and rested my head against my knees again.

"I am on your side, Leo," she said after a minute. "I just want you to be happy. Happy with what you've got." I looked up at her. She picked up the sewing and continued with it as she talked. "I know that you do not like school, but you have to make the best of it. You have to get used to your life the way it is. That's why I take the teachers' side. It's not because I think you are in the wrong all the time."

I did not answer. "Could Stirling be moved from Sergeant Markey's cla.s.s?" she said then. "I could speak to the headmaster. He's sensible, and he has always been kind to you both. He would want his teachers to be reported if they are behaving unacceptably."

"Perhaps," I said. "There is another Second Year platoon. I hardly know the teacher, though." Our school went right up from First Year to Ninth Year-from six years old to fifteen. With two cla.s.ses for each year, that made over nine hundred pupils. All boys, of course. Girls hadn't gone to school in Malonia since Lucien took power. "I suppose you could speak to the colonel," I said, but I knew Stirling would say no.

"Oh yes," she said. "It's not headmaster; it's colonel. And a cla.s.s is a platoon."

I laughed. "It's stupid, isn't it? You have to admit it's stupid."

"Perhaps. Perhaps it's good training." She put down her sewing again and went to stir the soup on the stove. I was still coughing. "Leo, are you sick?" she asked.

"No," I said. "I just got cold this afternoon, that's all."

But I went to bed still coughing. "I worry about Stirling," I told Grandmother when she came in to check on him. "I worry that he doesn't ... defend himself. Do you know what I mean?"

"Blessed are the meek," she said. "There is more than one way of fighting life's battles, Leo." I sighed, turned over, and went to sleep.

In my dreams I returned to the story that had appeared, to the people and the places from the strange book. I could see the girl and the glittering necklace, and then the prince on that highest balcony with his mother and father as the sun set. I could see them clearly. And then, in my dream, another story began. An old man was sitting alone in an empty house when a stranger appeared at the door.

Although he had been listening for it all week, the doorbell startled Raymond. He had been certain no one would come after all. This was the last day, and no one had come yet. He put down his newspaper and struggled out of his armchair.

The bell rang again. It always made the gla.s.s cases in the hall rattle, now that they were empty. Raymond dampened the nearest one with the back of his hand as he pa.s.sed, and hobbled to the door. He fumbled with the new locks, muttering, "Just coming."

A few feet back from the step stood a middle-aged man. He was a gray-looking man-that was what Raymond thought first-gray like steel. Gray eyes, gray shadows of stubble on his chin, gray hair-not through age but naturally that metallic color.

"Al ... er ... Arthur Field," said the man, in an accent that was not English but not quite foreign either. "I have come about the butler's job." As he spoke, he held out a hand. And the hand that he held out was his left one. He was definitely not English, Raymond decided. He took the man's hand gingerly.

"Come in, then," Raymond told him.

The man set about sc.r.a.ping his boots on the doormat. While he did it, Raymond squinted at him, hands on hips. Arthur Field had a heavy cloak about his shoulders, and his clothes underneath were worn as though he had come a long way in them. Raymond caught the glint of a necklace at the man's throat, but the man pulled up his collar before Raymond could peer any closer. Raymond gestured to the drawing room door, and the man followed him.

Arthur Field looked even more out of place in the drawing room. He sat where Raymond indicated, in the armchair beside the window, and waited. Raymond lowered himself into the chair opposite.

Arthur was glancing at the gla.s.s cases around the room. "So ...," said Raymond, and the man's gaze fixed on him. "You wish to apply for the butler's job?"

"Yes. I saw your advertis.e.m.e.nt in the newspaper."

"And what training and experience do you have?" Raymond asked.

"I ... er ... don't have any formal training ... as such," the man faltered. Raymond waited for him to go on, but he didn't.

"I see," said Raymond eventually.

"I could not help but notice the ... er ... reinforced vehicle on the gra.s.s," the man remarked, looking out the window, when the silence became embarra.s.sing.

Raymond smiled. "It does look rather imposing there, doesn't it? It seems to scare away trespa.s.sers better than any guard dog!"

"I expect it would."

"It's a genuine First World War tank," Raymond continued. "Actually saw service in France, would you believe?"

"It must be rare to own one of those."

"Yes, but I've had it a long time, you see!" Raymond told him. "Many museums have approached me, but I won't sell it to them."

"You cannot put a price on something like that."

"No, indeed," said Raymond. "No, no, indeed." He chuckled. "So, you are interested in weaponry, are you, Mr. Field?" he asked.

"It is ... yes ... fascinating. Though I don't know much about it."

"I've built up some knowledge over the years," Raymond said, gesturing to the cases around the room. "And quite a collection too."

"May I?" the man asked, rising.

"Certainly."

Each of the weapons lay in its case on glistening red velvet and was labeled with a card as if it was a museum exhibit. "So these were made much earlier than the ... er ... First World War ...," Arthur ventured.

"Of course!" Raymond exclaimed. "These are all swords, daggers, and rapiers in this room, from the sixteenth century to the early nineteenth." He went to stand beside Arthur, who was looking into the largest case.

"This is my particular favorite," said Raymond. "A gentleman's rapier, which I'm pretty sure is Spanish, and it's in remarkably good condition, don't you think?"

"Yes."

"I rather like the decoration on the hilt," Raymond continued. "That's a fine example of the cup hilt, and it's a Toledo blade. I've always wanted to know for sure if it was Spanish, or an imitation."

"Are there experts who could tell you that?"

"I'm sure there are-though I've never really asked anyone. I tend to keep my collection a secret. You never know what a con man might try if he wanted to find out about valuable weapons."

"Would someone really steal antique weapons?" the man asked.

"Oh yes," said Raymond, with bitter triumph. "Oh yes, they would. Only a couple of months ago, nearly my entire collection of firearms was stolen. You must have noticed the empty cases in the hall."

"I did." The man frowned at Raymond, his eyes intense. "A misfortune indeed."

"I was sad to lose them," said Raymond.

"And have you been able to trace the thieves?"

"No ... the police have had no luck as yet. It's my belief the criminals have smuggled the weapons into another country, but the police don't think so."

"Well, it would not be easy. Surely controls are tight."

"I would have thought so. I don't know how they'd have done it. But if they were determined enough, they'd have managed."

"How many of these weapons were stolen?"

"I had fifty-seven rifles and twelve pistols, as well as a Victorian revolver. Of them, fifty-three were stolen, and one of the most valuable ones was knocked to the floor and broken. The ones they left were the oldest."

"That is odd."

"Yes. Here's the strange thing: there was evidence of someone entering this room. They found fingerprints. Yet they took nothing from here. And I know that a good many of these pieces are more valuable than the guns were."

"Perhaps they wanted the weapons themselves, not the money."

"That may be."

Raymond limped back to the window and sat down heavily, motioning to the other chair. The man strode across the room but did not sit down. "It would take several people to carry fifty-three guns, would it not?" he asked.

"Oh yes. You know, I heard nothing, but it must have taken a veritable army to cart the things off."

The man leaned forward, gripping the back of the chair so tightly that the tendons in his hands quivered. "A veritable army indeed."

"It is most peculiar," Raymond went on. "I cannot think why someone would want to steal the least valuable weapons in the house."

"Perhaps ...," suggested the man, "they meant to replicate them."

"But whatever for?"

" To use."

"No ... I can hardly see why. There are simpler ways of getting guns for hunting and suchlike; I would imagine even criminals have easier sources. And why take so many?"

The man seemed deep in thought for a minute. "Tell me," he said slowly. "Tell me-these weapons-are they very complicated?"