Willow was quiet, flicking her feet with a piece of straw. “Sorry.”
Boy mumbled something.
“Why are they taking so long?” she asked again.
“We’ve got to get out,” said Boy again.
There was a rattling of keys in the huge iron lock and the door swung back on its heavy hinges.
The Watchman who had locked them up several hours before ducked his head as he came back into the cell. He seemed surprised to see them. He glanced at the sleeping figure by the wall.
“Lucky for you he drank so much,” he said.
“Did you go to the theater and look?” asked Willow.
“Oh yes,” said the Watchman. His hat had a pink plume in it. This meant he was more important than the red-plumed one who’d arrested them. Willow thought this was a good sign. He could let them go. She’d told them about finding Korp and explained about the blood. She’d told them to go and see for themselves, so they knew she was telling the truth. And Boy had just let them imagine that the blood on his clothes was the same blood that was on Willow.
“So you see that what we told you is true?” Willow asked.
“Oh yes. Very much so. And you will both be detained on suspicion of the murder of Director Korp of the Great Theater.”
14
Valerian lurked in the shadows across the road from the Citadel of the City Watchmen. It was an old building, one of the very oldest in this very old city, and was a crazy mixture of styles and materials. Black-timbered box windows lurched unnecessarily far out of rough stone walls, doors halfway up walls led only to empty space, and ornate towers and spires twisted high into the early morning air above Valerian.
He hated being here, he disliked even being in this part of the City, which was a much richer and altogether nicer area than he was used to-than what he had become used to. The longest side of the Citadel overlooked the river, and the stink coming from it was worse than ever. As if all that were not enough, it was daylight. Valerian could not remember the last time he had been outside during the day. It disturbed him.
It had all gone wrong, and time was running out. Had he really expected the boy to get the information he’d sent him for? And now he’d have to get Boy out of the Citadel, to know for sure that he hadn’t. Valerian cursed; he didn’t have time to be messing around like this.
Once, things had been so different for him, but as the last few years had turned under his feet, the specter of his past had risen to meet him like the dawn of a terrible day.
Well, there would be worse to come yet, that much Valerian knew for sure.
15
The figure in the straw stirred again. Very soon he might wake up, and with a significant hangover.
“Why did you tell them about Korp?” Boy asked Willow.
“I couldn’t not, could I? I was covered in blood. I still am.”
She tried not to look at her clothes. It was bad enough that the stuff had now dried in her hair and matted it together in places. She wanted a bath very much. Boy looked no better. For some reason he was wearing only sackcloth leggings under his overcoat, and from the knees down his legs were stained red-brown. Although Red-plume and Pink-plume thought this was Korp’s blood too, Willow knew it was not.
“So tell me again how you’ve got blood on your legs. And where your clothes are. And what you were doing out at three in the morning.”
Boy sighed. Why did she always have to ask so many questions? He changed the subject. “I can’t believe Korp’s dead.”
“No,” Willow agreed.
“But that means…”
“What?”
“Well, the theater. What will happen? There’s no one to take it over. It will close and that means I’m out of a job.”
“Me too,” said Willow, “but we don’t know for sure it’s going to close. Someone will take it over.”
“Who?” asked Boy.
“Well…,” said Willow, thinking hard. “Valerian?”
Boy was about to laugh, but then thought about it. Valerian was just about the only reason the Great Theater was still going anyway. Why shouldn’t he take it over? In fact… A terrible thought crossed his mind, but he pushed it away. There were other things to think about first. Besides, Valerian was utterly bored with the theater these days, only keeping the act going as a steady source of income.
“What will they do to us?” he asked Willow, but he knew the answer.
“Hang us, I expect.”
“Or drown us, maybe.”
They both fell silent again. The sun climbed higher over the City and shed a little light directly into their cell. Boy and Willow wasted no time in sitting in the patch of sunlight, and at last they began to feel warm.
Boy shoved his hands deep into his pockets and his left struck something solid. He pulled out the music box. He turned it over. The only other time he’d seen one was in Kepler’s house. He collected clockwork mechanisms of all kinds, and had once shown some to Boy.
Boy daydreamed, remembering the time a year or so ago when Kepler had come to stay in their house for a week while he installed the camera obscura. It had taken Kepler the whole week to fit it into the Tower room. There was a lot of banging and sawing and swearing, until finally Kepler had thrown open the door.
“Behold!” he cried dramatically, and Valerian, who had not been allowed into his own chamber during the construction, had entered. Boy had watched the door close behind them, and many months later he was still none the wiser about what the machine actually did. As the door had closed, however, he had heard Valerian exclaim, “You, Kepler, are the greatest Doctor of Natural Philosophies who has ever lived!”
“What’s that?” asked Willow.
Boy waved the music box at her and wound its handle a couple of times before putting it back in his pocket.
“I… found it,” he said. “At the Trumpet. Listen to the music, because it may be the last we hear!”
“Oh, Boy, don’t give up. It could be worse.”
“How could it be worse?”
Willow didn’t answer, because the figure lying in the straw suddenly rolled over and vomited across the floor.
“Please get me out of here,” wailed Boy.
The door rattled and opened, and Valerian entered the room.
Before Boy could open his mouth, Valerian put his finger to his lips. Pink-plume followed him.
“Two minutes,” he barked at Valerian, and then saw the mess on the floor. “Or less, if you prefer.” He pulled a face and locked them in again.
“Valerian!” Boy cried. “How did-?”
“How did I know you were here? You don’t think I’d trust you to get it right by yourself, do you? Something this important?”
Boy wished Valerian wouldn’t talk like that, especially in front of Willow, but he was too relieved to care.
“Well?” said Valerian.
Boy said nothing. Then:
“He wouldn’t tell me anything. I-”
Valerian lurched forward toward Boy, who flinched backward. But did not hit him.
“He’s dead,” Boy cried. “Someone murdered him. The Phantom!”
“What?” roared Valerian, then seemed to remember where they were and made an effort to calm himself.
“He’s dead. He-”
“Not that! Did he tell you anything? What did he say before…?”
“He wouldn’t,” Boy stammered. “He-”
“Be quiet! So he told you nothing before he died? Kepler sent him with information for me-the name of a grave. You’re sure?”
Boy nodded, and Valerian flung his arms out wide, failing to find words bad enough for Boy.
“I do have something,” Boy said. He fished in his pocket and pulled out the music box.
“Are you trying to be funny? I need a name, not trinkets!”
“Valerian?” asked Willow.
Only now did Valerian seem to notice her presence in the cell.
“Hmm?” he said, still staring at the music box.