The Eyes Of A King Part 4

Raymond thought about that. "Certainly not compared to the modern standard-issue weapons. But they are very well designed, some of those old firearms."

"Do you think someone would be able to replicate them, if they had an original to work from?"

"I don't know. It would depend what they wanted them for. The decommissioned ones could have been reactivated, I suppose, and then copied. But most of them were antiques. The replicas wouldn't fool any serious collector."

"Well ... say, for example, whoever stole your weapons wished to replicate them so that they would function. No more than function, simply so that they would fire. And then suppose they wanted to ma.s.s-produce them. Would they, in theory, be able to do that?"

"With only what they stole from me?"

The man nodded. "In theory."

"Yes ...," said Raymond. "Yes, I believe they would." The man did not answer, so he elaborated. "A couple of them were st.u.r.dy bolt-action rifles. In the case of those particular weapons, their simplicity is what makes them so effective."

I woke suddenly. I was coughing again in the cold night air, and that was what woke me. In the darkness, I could see the light of the gas lamps on the cracks in the ceiling. I sat up. I heard that old man's voice echoing in my head for a moment, as if his spirit was lingering in the room even after the dream was gone. Then the building was silent. Stirling was asleep, his face turned to the wall. The church clock in the square was chiming two.

I realized that the book was lying on my bedcovers, that strange black book that I had found in the snow and all but forgotten. It was open. I picked it up, rubbing my eyes, and glanced at it. But before I had read half a page, I was wide awake and staring at the new writing.

I was frightened suddenly. It was not just that I felt I had read this story before. It was the same, even to the last word the old man spoke, as my dream. And in the book, the story went on.

Raymond enjoyed talking about his weapons to one so attentive. "Yes," he continued. "I would go so far as to say that if time, money, and patience were no concern, someone could make a working replica of at least the simpler weapons."

Arthur didn't reply. "Please, sit down," Raymond told him, to break his unnerving stare. The man sat. "May I ask why you are so interested?"

"Oh ..." Arthur laughed distractedly. "No reason really-just curiosity. It seems a strange crime."

"Yes, it was strange," said Raymond. And then he remembered why the man was here. "Anyway, about this butler's job ..."

"Oh yes, of course," said the man, but the thoughtful frown did not leave his face.

"Look here," Raymond said. "I'd like to employ you, but you tell me you have no training or experience. Do you have any references at all?"

The man shook his head. "I was working in another country, in a very different field. I did not think references would be worth anything."

"Where were you working?" said Raymond.

"In Australia," said the man. He cast his eyes about the room. "Actually, I was in the army."

"The army!" said Raymond, leaning forward eagerly. "So when I asked you if you were interested in weaponry ..."

The man laughed, showing all his teeth, like a skull. "Indeed."

"You were in the Australian forces, then?" Raymond went on.

"No," said the man. "I am not Australian."

"What were you doing there? Training?"

The man nodded. "In the desert ... the Australian desert."

"What were you doing before that? Forgive me for asking; I'm rather interested in the army."

"Before that? We were carrying out ... you know ... operations ..."

"Other than war?" said Raymond.

"Yes. How fast one forgets these things! Yes, we were working in various countries-I am afraid I cannot be too specific. It was highly secret."

"Of course." Raymond regarded the man with a new respect. "Anyway, about this job ... Mr. Field, I would have liked to employ you-you're a decent sort of man, I can see-but if you've had no training whatsoever, I cannot pay you what I would pay an experienced butler."

"I think," said the man, "that we misunderstand each other. I did not expect payment."

Raymond looked up, startled. "I ask for nothing," Arthur Field went on. "I aim only to gain experience. I a.s.sume that whoever is employed will be lodged here?"

"Of course."

"That is all I ask for. I did not think you would a.s.sume that I wanted money while I was still training."

"I can't have you working here for nothing," Raymond began.

"You just said that you could not pay someone who had no experience."

"I meant that I could not employ someone who had no experience."

But he knew he was going to. He was under the strange man's power; the sinister gray eyes and the skull-like smile and the mind beneath the mask of casual indifference had drawn him in, and he was going to employ Arthur Field against his better judgment.

Later the new butler regarded himself in the mirror and smiled grimly. He did not like uniforms or groveling, or being called a decent sort of man by people who had half his intelligence.

Arrogance never did anyone any good, he told himself, rearranging the new black jacket impatiently. He was being arrogant. Here he had safety, a job, food, and shelter, and he was hidden. Here he was alive. a.s.suming an expression of subservience, he turned and marched out and down the stairs.

After I closed the book, I sat in the darkness for a long time, thinking-and when I woke the next morning, the story was still in my mind. I wondered what the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries were, and the First World War. Were they English phrases? And if so, did that mean this story was connected to the other, the one about our exiled prince and that girl with the blue eyes? I was coughing all the rest of that week, and I could not shake it off, but I did not think about it so much as I would have done before. I was thinking about the book instead.

On Friday the cold weather ended suddenly. The rain streaked down the windows of the cla.s.sroom, and I sat and watched it and thought again about that story. How did it concern me? If it was nothing to do with me at all, I did not know why I had dreamed about the old man and the stranger even before the writing appeared. It was very strange. I had tried to put it out of my mind, but I could not.

Something thudded on the desk in front of me then. It was a rifle. I stared at it for a moment, then blinked and looked up. Sergeant Bane was looking down at me, amus.e.m.e.nt in his face. "North, we are going out for drill," he said. "You were a hundred miles away." I saw that the rest of my platoon were already jogging out into the yard, the collars of their coats raised against the driving rain. "Hurry!" said Sergeant Bane. I stumbled up and fetched my coat, then picked up the rifle and ran out after the others.

We were training harder than ever now. We had shooting drill every morning for an hour, then weight training, and then we ran twenty times round the yard. But no one was making much of an effort that day, and by the time we got to running laps, we were all halfhearted. Even when the rain dwindled, the mud was still slimy, and I slipped and fell several times. I tried to run, but every few yards I doubled over coughing. "Keep going, North!" shouted Sergeant Bane from the shelter of the overhanging roof. I stumbled on.

It was while we were running that I thought of the book again and realized that the gun in my own hand was a bolt-action rifle. And I remembered suddenly that there had been a rumor, a long time ago, that our military technology had been developed in a country as far away as England. Just a rumor. I slowed to a jog and examined the gun in my hands. I did not know if it was a simple weapon, like the ones the old man and the stranger had been talking about. Perhaps in other places-places like England-they had guns that were far more advanced than this. I did not know.

Then Sergeant Markey appeared around the corner of the building, leading Stirling's platoon behind him. He stepped into the shelter beside Sergeant Bane, cast his eyes over us with a disparaging sniff, and said something that I could not hear. "North, you are going too slowly!" shouted Sergeant Bane to me. I was half a lap behind the rest. I ran to catch up, and that started me coughing again.

"One more lap and then you can go in," Sergeant Bane called as we pa.s.sed him. I looked for Stirling in the crowd of younger boys and gave him a quick wave. He grinned back.

"North," said Sergeant Markey suddenly. "Come over here."

I stopped where I was. Stirling had stopped as well, but it was me that Sergeant Markey was talking to. "Come here!" he repeated. "Now."

I trailed over. I was coughing again, and I could not see his expression until I straightened up. He seemed to be smiling, but that did not rea.s.sure me.

"I noticed that North was not making an effort," he said, turning to Sergeant Bane. His voice was very reasonable. "So perhaps he can train for another hour and a half with my platoon. I will be very happy to supervise him."

"Given the state of his health ...," Sergeant Bane began, then seemed to change his mind. "Thank you, Sergeant Markey. Send him back in when he has finished."

After my platoon had gone back inside and Stirling's had started running, Sergeant Markey turned to me. "You think you're above hard work," he said, very quietly. "You think you're a b.l.o.o.d.y prince, North. This hour and a half will teach you better." He stared at me for a moment, and I could tell he was trying to make me look away. I didn't. "Thirty laps," he said then. "Get that rifle above your head. If it comes down, you will start again."

I began running, still coughing as I went. "One!" he shouted the first time I pa.s.sed him. Then "Two!" I tried to think of the story again, so as not to feel the sharp pains that were rising in my chest, but it did no good. I got to six, then stumbled and dropped the rifle. I bent over, trying to catch my breath.

Sergeant Markey picked up the gun and put it into my hands, then pushed my shoulder hard so that I straightened up. "Are you going to give up now?" he said, his face close to mine. "I told you to run thirty laps and not to lower that rifle. Do you want to do some other training perhaps? Weights? Or just give up? Is that what you want?" I shook my head. "What's that?" he said.

"No," I muttered.

"No, Sergeant Markey!" he shouted, pushing my shoulder again.

"No, Ser Sergeant Markey," I repeated. I spoke the word "sergeant" as if talking to someone insane who insisted on that inappropriate t.i.tle. I should not have said it like that.

He watched me for a moment. I stood there coughing and trying to breathe. Sergeant Markey turned to survey the younger boys. "North, run faster!" he shouted at Stirling. "You're as lazy as your b.a.s.t.a.r.d brother! Do you hear?"

He turned back to me. "This is your first lap now," he said. "Start again."

I glared at him in silence. I decided suddenly to run the thirty laps even if it killed me to do it. I was coughing and gasping in air, but I started running again, keeping my arms locked straight above my head. They began to burn with pain, down to my shoulders, and the rifle grew so heavy that I had to slow to a jog. But I kept running. Every time I pa.s.sed Sergeant Markey, he would stare straight at me, as though he was trying to put me off with his glare. My whole body was burning now, but my skin was cold with the rain and the sweat that was rising on it.

On the twenty-first lap, I fell to my knees in the mud. He was shouting something again. But suddenly I could not hear. I saw Stirling turn and say "Leo," and I could not hear his voice either. Then he ran to my side and caught hold of my arm. And after that everything went dark.

Below me someone laughs, and I start and drop the book. My heart is beating fast at that faint sound. I get up and walk to the edge of the balcony. I must be losing my mind to start like that at such a slight noise far below in one of those lighted rooms. But I could not help it. I was far away and forgot that I was here at all. Perhaps that is crazy. You told me once that madness was a line, drawn only by humans and amounting to nothing more. But you know it as a theory. You have never been near that line.

I was trying to tell you about my old life, the way things were. Perhaps I was too impulsive; perhaps I was too proud. But you have to understand that I felt trapped; I felt like I was being dragged in directions I did not want to go. And any response I got when I acted against this made me feel as if I was still alive. I drove Grandmother to exasperation and I argued with Sergeant Markey because I wanted more than anything to be free. I thought that no one could make me do anything. I used to look up at the stars and think, That's Leo there, and no one can reach me. I don't know if it was true.

All those years, I thought I was unhappy. I don't think anymore that I was. You told me something once that stuck in my head, about how thoughts are dangerous when you are in a bad situation. That if you let your thoughts console you and govern your life, you don't know what is true anymore. You don't see your life for what it is. You think that you're happy. I see now that it can go the other way. You can think that you're unhappy when you're not. That's what I did.

Standing at the edge of this highest balcony, I can see the lanterns strung out through the trees of the roof garden, the lights swaying as the breeze catches them, and the people walking there, just shadows among the trees. I can see the few carriages that move in the city streets, a long way below. I think suddenly that I would give anything to go back to those days.

I check the lamp, sit down against the wall, and open the book again. I will read the rest; I still have time. I cannot go back, but I can still read these words.

The piercing blue of the sky was all that I could see when I woke. I lay and stared at it, thinking that I was in my bed at home. And then I heard a voice and saw that the windows above me were high and narrow, not the diamond panes of the window in the bedroom. "Leo, wake up," Stirling was saying. I turned over and remembered what had happened.

Stirling was kneeling beside me. He put his arm about my shoulders and made a sound like a sob. And it was, for when he drew back, I could see the tears in his eyes. "I'm all right," I said, trying to sit up. When I did, the room moved unsettlingly, and I lay back down again and shut my eyes. "Where are we?"

"The colonel's office." I felt Stirling take hold of my hand. Then another voice was speaking, close by. "North, can you hear me?" I looked up. It was the colonel.

He knelt down beside me. "You pa.s.sed out. You are not the first one to do this by any means. We brought you in here to recover."

"You were asleep for so long," said Stirling, clutching my hand. "I was talking to you all the time, and you didn't hear anything."

"It was only a few minutes," said the colonel. "That is nothing to worry about."

Everything was still strange and distant. I managed to sit up, and leaned back against the cold stone wall. Stirling would not let go of my hand. "You will need to go home and get some rest," said the colonel. He turned to Stirling. "You can take your brother home, can't you?"

"Yes," said Stirling. "I'll look after Leo."

"Good lad," said the colonel.

We sat there in silence. I was watching the sunlight on the papers that covered the colonel's desk, and the four-pointed stars it made on the gla.s.s cabinets around the walls. It was strange. Everything looked different since I had woken up. I can't explain it, but it felt as though I was in a completely different place. The world had changed. Or maybe it was just because the sun had come out. Stirling sat beside me and kept hold of my hand, and I let him. Then we got up and started for home.

"Grandmother will be angry," I muttered as we walked down Paradise Way. "Especially when she hears that I was being punished for not making an effort again."

But I was wrong. As soon as we stepped through the door, Grandmother started up from her rocking chair, staring at me with such intent concern that I was startled. I went and lay down on my bed while Stirling explained. "Tell me again-tell me exactly what happened," Grandmother said, standing over me anxiously.

"I pa.s.sed out when I was running," I said. "That's all. I should have stopped when I got tired, but I went on. I'm all right now."

She laid her hand on my forehead. "You don't seem to have a fever. But that cough of yours has been getting worse." She twisted her hands together. "I will get the priest to come and look at you," she said. "Father Dunstan will know if this is serious."

"It is not serious," I protested. "Grandmother, you don't need to send for Father Dunstan." But she was already hurrying out the door.

She arrived with the priest about half an hour later. "I pray to G.o.d that this is not silent fever," she said, hovering anxiously behind him while he took my pulse.

He shook his head. "It is exhaustion. That is why Leonard pa.s.sed out." He turned to me. "Rest for a day or two. Get plenty of sleep. You have been training too hard for a long time, I think."

Grandmother and Stirling were still gazing at me in concern after Father Dunstan had left. I laughed at that. "I told you it was not serious. It's stupid, really. Usually I can run thirty laps without trouble."

"You didn't run thirty laps," said Stirling. "You ran more like fifty. Sergeant Markey kept starting again from the beginning."

"I should have seen that you were tired, Leo," said Grandmother, shaking her head. "I should have seen that all this army training was too much for you."

"It's not too much," I said. "It was that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Markey's fault."

And then I looked to see that Grandmother was not angry that I had sworn. And I was glad that she was not, which was strange. She did not reprimand me, either for that or for calling Sergeant Markey just "Markey." She only went on looking at me in that strange, concerned way and then tucked the blanket more tightly around me.

"I thought you would die!" Stirling exclaimed suddenly, clutching at my arm. "When I saw you fall down, I thought you would not get up again. I thought you were badly hurt."

"I'm fine," I said. "You don't have to worry. I'm sorry if I scared you."

"He's tough, our Leo," said Grandmother. "Thirty laps of that yard must be several miles." She took my hand, but her own trembled slightly. I could see the fragile relief in her face. She needed me, I thought, despite all our arguments. For a few minutes she had believed that I was very ill, and she could not have borne to lose me. The thought was comforting, because never before in my life had I realized it. We sat there, the three of us, talking as though we had not seen each other for days or years, while the sun came down through the window and lit up the whole room.

That afternoon Grandmother went out to the market, and Stirling sat beside my bed and talked to me. "Help me get up," I said after a while. "I'm going down to the bathroom."

"Now?" he said. "It might not be a good idea. I think you should stay in bed. What if you faint again?"

"I'll be fine," I said. "I will go carefully."