The Lazarus Vault Part 19

No way back from here, she told herself. On the wall, the damsel tied to the tree tipped her head back in a plea to the knight advancing on her. Save me? Don't hurt me? The paint was silent.

Ellie snapped the seals. Crumbs of wax spilled over Blanchard's desk, but she didn't bother to wipe them away. He'd find out soon enough.

She'd never seen a file like it. The earliest pages were sheets of parchment, still supple and smooth to the touch; they gave way to a stiff and brittle paper with an ivory sheen, that gradually softened into creamy writing paper and finally to regular A4 office paper. Some of the paper felt thin and grey, and she supposed that came from wartime. It was like looking at tree rings, history written in cross section.

But she needed the present and she found it almost at once, a sheet of paper at the back headed 'Vault Access'. Underneath was a list of strange words, foreign and archaic. Or, argent, azure, gules, vert ... Each had a four-digit number beside it.

She closed the safe and jogged down the hall to the lift. When she slid Blanchard's card into the invisible slot in the panel, the b.u.t.ton for the sixth floor started to glow.

Her hand hovered in front of it, trembling. The ruby on her finger smouldered like a dragon's eye. On her wrist, the seconds ticked by.

She stabbed the b.u.t.ton.

With the merest tremor, the lift began its descent. Past the bas.e.m.e.nt and the sub-bas.e.m.e.nt, then a long eternity when it was nowhere. Ellie began to wonder if it had stopped, if some hidden sensor had betrayed her deception. Her heart twitched with panic; she gazed at the b.u.t.tons, overcome with a desperate urge to push them and turn the lift back to the world above. But it was too late.

She didn't feel the lift stop. The doors glided open, revealing the golden room with its treasures so tantalisingly unguarded. Every piece triggers an alarm. But what else might trigger it? She approached the jewelled cup on the plinth in the centre of the room. A movement in the gla.s.s made her flinch, but it was only her own ghostly reflection. She unzipped her top and pulled out the key.

Four carved beasts peered from the corners of the plinth: a dragon, a horned serpent that she thought might be a c.o.c.katrice, a griffin and a basilisk. Ellie knelt and peered in their mouths. At the back of each stone throat, a small keyhole invited the key. She slid it into the serpent, just as Blanchard had done. Her arm tensed as she reached in, as if the stone jaws might come to life, spring shut.

Nothing happened. The key fit the lock perfectly. She felt the mechanism bite as she began to turn. It was working.

Or was it that simple? It occurred to her that all the vault's defences were built on illusion. It didn't block your way: it invited you in, tempting you to betray yourself. The sixth floor that lay three storeys underground; the unprotected treasures on the shelves around her; the door hidden back where you'd come from.

Every piece triggers an alarm.

She eased off the lock and withdrew the key. Trying to stand where she'd stood before, she examined the cup in the case. It looked different to last time. Halfway up, the stem swelled out in a golden bubble, decorated on four sides with inlaid coloured stones. Ellie was sure the stone facing her before had been emerald green; now it was white, a fat pearl.

The cup had turned.

She circled the plinth, poring over the cup. The other stones in the stem were yellow she thought it might be amber, though in fact it was a diamond and a blood-red garnet.

She tried to remember a lecture series she'd been to at university, a wizened old professor who might have come straight from a monastery scriptorium.

Griffins were the guardians of gold.

Basilisks had a white spot on their head like a diadem.

The c.o.c.katrice had black eyes. Or were they red? Her memory faltered; she looked to her phone, but of course there was no reception down there.

You don't even know that any of it corresponds at all.

Her heart thudded inside her chest; with every beat, she felt time racing away. She had to make a decision.

She put the key in the basilisk's mouth and turned.

Perhaps, somewhere else in the building, an alarm went off or a light began to flash. In the deep vault, Ellie had no way of knowing. Behind her, she heard the hiss as the false door in the lift slid back to reveal the rugged wooden portal behind.

She checked her watch: almost two hours gone. She'd have to hurry.

The Aston Martin raced down the A12 towards London. The road was almost empty at that time of night; the needle hovered well above a hundred miles an hour. Inside, Destrier was barking orders to a chastened security guard. He'd gone to Blanchard's office but found nothing, the door locked, the light off. That worried Destrier even more.

The line beeped to announce a new message. 'Just find her,' he shouted. He hung up, then glanced down to read the message.

He nearly drove off the road. He slammed the brakes and the rear end started to fishtail on the slick tarmac. He spun the wheel and swerved back, almost into the path of an oncoming lorry. Its horn blasted through the cold night, falling away like a dying breath.

Destrier eased his speed down to ninety while he gathered his thoughts. He glanced at the message again, hardly believing his eyes. Where the h.e.l.l was Blanchard?

01:29 : Card 0002 entry to FLOOR 6 Ellie had brought a head-torch, but she didn't need it. The hidden lights glowed into life the moment she crossed the threshold. She moved down the ancient aisle, scanning the vaults above for watching eyes, cameras or beams that would trap her. She saw nothing.

She crossed the transept and reached the back of the vault, under where the old church's altar must once have stood, before the religion of wealth replaced the religion of charity. She thought of the mosaic half-buried in the floor, and wondered what older, darker faiths had flourished here before that. The iron doors glared at her like dead eyes in the furrowed walls.

Here, time becomes s.p.a.ce.

She knew, without ever having being told, which vault it was. She remembered it from her visit with Blanchard: the two double doors in the floor painted with the Monsalvat crest and a steel keypad beside it. A black eagle on a red s.h.i.+eld with a white chevron, clutching a golden spear. She looked at the piece of paper she'd taken from the Lazarus file.

Or, argent, azure, gules, vert ...

Her last contact with Harry had been a CD and a book, delivered in a free newspaper again as she walked past Moorgate Tube station. She bought a portable CD player and sat outside in the Barbican listening to it. High walls of pebbledash and distressed concrete soared all around her. Ornamental water gushed out of a pipe into a series of ponds; wells sunk in the concrete revealed fragments of the medieval walls deep below the twentieth-century monument.

Harry's voice spoke through the headphones. 'All the vault codes at Monsalvat are based on heraldry. Each colour in the crest is allocated a number, which changes weekly. You'll get the numbers from the file. Then you have to determine the correct formulation of the crest, which gives you the order. You'll find everything you need to know in the book we've given you.'

Ellie had read the book like an eight year old, hiding under the duvet with a torch long after she should have been asleep. It taught her a new language, a new grammar escutcheons and lozenges, charges and tinctures. She learned the difference between engrailed and enfossed, between metals and furs. She marvelled at the precision of it, even as she despaired of its intricacy. But she learned it.

Gules a chevron Argent, overall an eagle displayed Sable, armed and holding a spear both Or.

She consulted the paper from the file and found the numbers that corresponded to the colours. Each had four digits, sixteen in total. She entered them on the keypad, praying she'd remembered the medieval terminology correctly.

For a moment nothing happened. Then, with a creak that sounded as old as the stones themselves, the doors swung in.

x.x.x.

Troyes, County of Champagne, November 1141 The town is packed: All Souls was two weeks ago, and the Cold Fair is in full swing. Merchants have come from all the corners of Christendom to trade their wares. The Count of Champagne has built vast warehouses on the edge of the town to accommodate the trade; his guards are everywhere in their blue and white livery, shepherding the money as it changes hands. You can buy furs, wool and linen cloth, pepper and spices, leather and silk anything you can imagine.

It's also a good place to buy men.

The square in the centre of the town has become a c.o.c.kpit. Four rings have been roped off, where squires and serjeants take turns testing their strength in combat. I manoeuvre my way to the front. A fat man in a leather cap and armour is taking on a young squire, whose face is a mask of concentration. The boy dances and skips, jabbing and parrying. The fat man barely moves, content to swat and bat the boy back. On the far side of the ring, I can see a one-eyed, grey-haired man in a black coat trimmed with gold. He's watching the fight, but he looks bored.

With a sudden movement that belies his size, the fat man darts forward. Two strokes and the boy's clutching his hand in agony, his sword on the ground. He reels away, towards a girl who looks as if she's having second thoughts.

The crowd applaud; money changes hands. While they're talking, I duck under the rope and pick up the fallen sword. The weight feels good.

The fat man looks at me. 'Did you lose your armour?'

I shrug. If I were more extravagant, I'd make some bragging retort.

The crowd are getting interested. There's nothing they like more than an entertaining mismatch. A proven champion in leather armour, against what?

They're waiting to see if I'm just a fool who's drunk too much, or if I can surprise them.

I stand as stiff as I can and take a couple of awkward, artless strokes. The fat man relaxes. Another novice, he thinks. I retreat from his attacks, skittering around the ring like a frightened fawn. The fat man follows, taking his time. The crowd bay encouragement. From the corner of my eye, I see the man in the black coat watching intently. He's not deceived.

I start to slow down. The fat man sees his moment and comes in for the kill. He's agile, but he's got a lot of weight to carry and I've watched how he does it. I see him coming and drift back. He lands heavily and staggers forward, off balance. I get inside the reach of his blade and grab his arm. I twist it until it's about to snap, then chop down the hilt of my sword against his wrist. He drops his sword: he's trying to pull away, but I won't let go. I knee him in the gut, and for good measure, slam the pommel of my sword into his nose. I don't think I've broken it, but I've made it bleed. The crowd like to see blood.

Another man gets in the ring. He's taller and leaner, full of confidence. I don't waste time with this one. Inside a minute, he's lying on his back with my sword at his throat.

I've made my point. I clamber out of the ring and wipe the blood off my hands.

'If anyone wants my services, I'll be in the Black Bull,' I announce.

There's a tournament at Ressons in a week, and somebody will be looking for a lance. I'll fight under a borrowed standard, take my winnings, then disappear again.

This has been my life for five years.

I feel a hand on my sleeve and spin about. It's the one-eyed man who was watching the fight, a grey face in black and gold livery. He doesn't ask my name. Perhaps he knows I wouldn't give it to him.

'You fought well.'

I nod, accept the compliment.

'I work for a man who rewards good fighters.'

He opens his hands, making me an offer.

'I don't have a horse. Or arms.' I lost them in Hainault, fighting a brutal little border war for a count who never paid me.

'The man I work for can provide them.'

'For a tournament.'

'For ...' He weighs his words like a spice merchant counting peppercorns. 'He can tell you himself.'

He brings me to a goldsmith's shop. At least, I think, he'll be able to pay me. A black eagle hangs on the sign above the door, its greedy claws outstretched. While I wait, I eye up the cups and plates that line the room, dull gold behind iron bars. I wonder if I could steal one.

I remember the story my mother told about the man who stole a cup from an enchanted land. His punishment was that he could never leave. When I was young, I thought it was a cruel ending, but at least I thought it was an ending. Now I understand that the story continued. I think of that knight, trapped in the underground kingdom. Every day, he must have woken thinking, Perhaps this will be the day. Devising ever more elaborate plans, straining for the roof of his world, piling frustration on misery. Always out of reach.

Death is the only ending, and I crave it. Sometimes, especially in darkness, I run my finger down the blade of my sword and think how easily I could do it. It would be a sin, but no worse than others I've committed. I think how sweet the release would be.

But I'm not ready to die. Every morning, I wake and think, Perhaps this will be the day.

At the front of the shop, three clerks sit behind a table facing the square. I watch the coins move across the chequered tablecloth, like pieces on a chessboard. Men bring them, rearrange them on the table, take some back. Gradually, I begin to see the patterns. Many of the customers are merchants from the fair who want to change their own coins for the livres of Troyes. A group of Italians bring him twenty of their silver coins, and receive a gold livre in exchange. But when an Italian who's going home brings him his own gold livre, he gets only eighteen silver coins.

Do they know they're being cheated?

I lean forward on the edge of my seat, fingering the hilt of my knife. Surely a fight's going to break out when one of the merchants notices. But there's no complaint, no argument.

The steward comes out of a door at the back of the shop and beckons me in. I expect him to take me upstairs: instead, we descend. At the bottom of a tight stair, he lets me in to a low crypt. The stones are cold, the room lit only by candles. Ironbound boxes line the walls. At the far end, a hunched figure sits at a table, though I sense him more than I see him. He's robed in darkness. A silvered mirror hangs on the wall behind him, reflecting back the candlelight like a moon.

A pale hand seems to beckon me forward. Closer as I come, I can still barely see him. He's wrapped in a black cloak, black wool with a sable fur collar. The skin's been taken off the animal in one piece, so that the toothy snout and tiny claws clasp around his throat. All I can see of the man is his face: a high forehead, a hooked nose and stringy white hair poking from under a black cap. His skin is pale as sc.r.a.ped parchment, and shrunk in on itself like a plum left to dry in the sun. The only colour comes from his eyes, which are blue as a May sky. They stare at me so hard I wonder if he's blind.

For the first time in five years, I feel afraid.

'You are a fighter?' His voice is strong, granite hard.

I nod, but I can't meet those eyes. My gaze drifts downward to the table, a beautiful thing. It's the chequered tablecloth from upstairs made solid, ebony and ivory inlay.

'I'm a.s.sembling a group of fighting men.' He twitches his hand. It makes an unnatural, rasping sound as it moves across the table. I look, and see that it isn't skin: it's silver, metal wrought in the shape of a hand blistered with black gemstones. It looks like a reliquary.

'This is a private matter. Not a tournament a real fight. I need men who aren't too proud to fight on foot, nor too n.o.ble to bury a knife in someone's back if need be.'

I don't blink. It's nothing I haven't done already.

'It will take six weeks, maybe two months. For this, I will pay you a hundred livres.'

It's been a long time since I smiled, but now I do. I glimpse myself in the silvered mirror on the wall and realise what a terrifying sight it is. A hundred livres.

For that, I could hire enough men to overrun Hautfort and burn it to the ground, Jocelin inside. I can almost hear his screams.

Perhaps this is the day.

There's a noise behind me. A man's come through the door, though if he wasn't standing by a candle I wouldn't see him at all. Everything about him is black: his hair, his eyes, his tunic and his boots. He stands so tall his head's almost hidden behind the roof-vault.

'Malegant de Mortain will be your captain,' the old man says. 'You will do whatever he tells you.'

'Where are we going?'

'West.'

ile de Peche, Brittany. Six weeks later.

The raindrops make rings on the flat sea, a labyrinth of interlocking circles. Our shallow boats glide across the surface and disturb the pattern. The hulls are so thin I can feel the water beneath, like horseflesh through the saddle.

It's been a hard ride from Troyes. It's winter: even the main roads can be impa.s.sable, and most of the time Malegant kept us on shepherds' paths and animal tracks. He wouldn't tell us where we were going, though every day the sun set ahead of us. The landscape changed as we headed west. Open farmland gave way to dripping forests and dark mountains, deep gorges and wild rivers. Sometimes it took a whole day just to cross one valley. It reminded me of my childhood, a magical place where the edges of the world grow permeable.

A shadow appears in the mist ahead. I can hear the lap of water on land. We scramble off the boats on a ramp by the water gate. I take out my sword and unwrap it from its parchment binding. I drop the pages in the water and watch them float away.

These are the pages of my past. Once I thought I could write them myself, fill them with romance and happy endings. Now I know better. I watch the rain try to drown the pages, and wish I could do the same for myself.

'Guard the gate,' Malegant says. 'When the fighting starts, no one escapes.'

x.x.xI.

London The vault was a pit, five feet deep and three feet square. All she could see at the bottom were shadows.

There shouldn't be much in there, Harry had told her. Get everything.

It was too deep to reach: she'd have to get in. She sat on the edge of the hole and prepared to lower herself down.

But something about the edges of the open doors had caught her eye. They were serrated, sharp triangular teeth that fitted together seamlessly when closed. She touched one of the points, and grabbed it away as a thin bead of blood welled on her fingertip.