Ten minutes later, Keelin was rattling through the city in a carriage with Zak by his side. Jett was in front, driving the horses, but otherwise they were alone. It was so early that few people were on the streets and they sped along at a good pace.
‘The museum’s good to visit,’ Zak told his companion happily. ‘It’s very old. People always want to pull it down but Carryl won’t let them.’
Keelin smiled and nodded though he had barely heard what the child had said. His mind was back at the chieftain’s lodge where Petronelle, grim-faced, was labouring to save the lady Janna, who was lying still and pale like one dead.
‘If Petronelle hadn’t knocked on our door and roused me when she did it would have been too late!’ Farr had said through chattering teeth. ‘I woke to find Janna barely breathing. Poisoned, Keelin, like the clink in your room! As it is, there’s a chance. If anyone can save her, it’s Petronelle.’
Zak did not know his mother’s danger. Zak thought only that he was being given a great treat—an unexpected visit to the museum with Keelin.
‘I must get the boy away,’ Farr had muttered rapidly. ‘He mustn’t know what’s happened—not yet. He’ll suffer enough later if—if things don’t go well.’
He had swallowed and quickly turned his head away, and suddenly Keelin had been gripped by a vivid memory of someone else—someone he saw in his mind only as a quick flash. Someone tall and strong, with a great heart and powerful emotions he tried not to show. Frantically Keelin had groped after the image, trying to call it back, but it had gone.
‘Till I get to the bottom of this horror you’re the only one I can trust to go with Zak, Keelin, for you were almost a victim of the poisoner yourself,’ Farr had gone on after a moment. ‘If I send him alone with Jett he’ll know there’s something wrong. But if I tell him you want to see the museum …’
The carriage was slowing. And there before them was a deep, sparkling bay, edged by a low stone wall.
His interest roused in spite of his fears, Keelin drank in the sight. The bay was crowded with ships and surrounded by docks and warehouses. Even at this early hour, the decks of the ships were alive with movement. On the shore, pie-sellers and vendors of sweet buns, soup, coffee and tea were already at work, serving the gaudily clad customers clustering around their stalls.
Standing at the top of a small rise straight ahead, commanding a magnificent view of the bay, was a low, ramshackle building.
‘We’re here!’ cried Zak, as the carriage came to a stop. ‘Come on, Keelin! Carryl will be so glad to see us! She says more people should come to the museum. She says people don’t realise how important it is, and that’s why the council won’t vote for money to mend it. But Father and Mother understand. They say the museum should stay here, whatever Trader Manx and Trader Barron think.’
He glanced at Keelin anxiously, perhaps suddenly realising how shabby the museum was and fearing that the visitor might be disappointed.
‘I am looking forward to seeing inside,’ Keelin said heartily, though in truth the old building looked like a wreck to him. He could well understand why the traders whose warehouses stood around the bay might envy its prime position and see it as a blot on the landscape. It was hard to imagine that there would be anything much to see in such a place.
But it would be interesting to meet Carryl, beloved chieftain turned museum keeper. Interesting, too, to hear about the ‘important discovery’ Carryl had mentioned in her message to Farr. Wishing his legs were not quite so wobbly, Keelin followed Zak up the little hill, leaving Jett staring broodingly out to sea.
Wearing filthy overalls, heavy gloves and work boots, Carryl greeted her visitors in a small, dusty lobby that smelled vaguely of cooked vegetables. She was extremely tall and thin, with a beaky nose, a wide, humorous mouth, piercing blue eyes and white hair screwed into a tiny knot on the top of her head. Old as she was, her every movement seemed charged with energy. Beside her was a puny boy, a few years younger than Zak, whose features were miniature versions of hers, giving his small face a clownish look.
‘Pieter, take Zak into the workroom and find that tin of sweetcakes your mother sent,’ Carryl said, as the two boys eyed each other without speaking. ‘You can have one each. Go along!’
His shyness forgotten, Pieter dashed to the back of the lobby, threw open a door marked ‘No Entry’, and beckoned wildly to Zak. ‘Cakes!’ he yelled. ‘Come see! An’ then I’ll show you the giant’s head-cutter Carryl found, from the olden days!’
Zak followed slowly, making it clear that he was the older of the two, and that neither sweetcakes nor head-cutters were of particular interest to him.
‘Pieter’s my youngest grandson,’ Carryl said, stripping off her gloves and ushering Keelin into a large, echoing room where cracked bowls, broken daggers and other sad objects were ranged on sagging shelves. ‘He spends a lot of time here with me—he likes old things and old tales. The others tease him because he’s small for his age, but I tell him he’ll likely shoot up in time like I did and be bigger than any of them one day. Now …’
She closed the door and turned her sharp blue gaze on her companion.
‘So you’re the one who saved Zak—the one who’s lost his memory. You look as if you should still be in bed! Why did Farr send you instead of coming himself? What’s happened?’
Keelin told her. The corners of her mouth tightened.
‘First Zak, now Janna,’ she muttered. ‘By the stars, how much more can Farr take before he cracks and lets the council have its way? I’ve got to work faster. But how can I? I’m here twenty-four hours a day as it is! If only I could get more help!’
She grimaced at Keelin’s expression.
‘Don’t think I don’t care about Janna. I care, all right. But I’ve lived a long time and I’ve learned to put feelings aside when I have to. And for now there’s nothing more important than stopping Farr launching his attack when there’s another way.’
‘Another …?’
‘Another way, yes! I feel it! I know it! Here!’
She grabbed Keelin’s arm and dragged him back into the lobby and through the door marked ‘No Entry’. The two boys were standing at the far end of the cluttered workroom beyond, eating cake and arguing loudly.
‘It’s not a head-cutter!’ Zak was saying scornfully. ‘It’s just a rusty old tool like farmers use for cutting stalks to feed the hogs.’
‘A head-cutter!’ Pieter insisted.
‘Whatever it is, don’t touch it!’ Keelin shouted. He had no time to say more. The next moment Carryl had thrown back a curtain and hauled him through another doorway, into a room without windows.
Here all the central floorboards had been prised away, and a great black hole yawned, exuding the smell of ancient rock and sour, damp earth. Keelin felt a stab of panic.
‘Down there,’ the old woman cried, pointing into the stinking darkness. ‘That’s where the answer lies—the proof I need to convince Farr, to convince them all! The spirits tell me so!’
And at that moment, in terror, Keelin heard someone shouting in his mind—shouting the same words, over and over again.
Get out! Get out! Get out!
Then there was an explosion as loud as a hundred thunderclaps. For one wild moment Keelin thought the building had been struck by lightning, then he remembered that the sky had been clear. The ceiling above him fell. He dropped to his knees, covering his head. Shattered plaster rained down on him, great beams crashed around him. He heard Carryl scream and his blood ran cold.
The deafening roar faded away, but the old building was creaking and groaning ominously. The walls were shaking. Terrified wails were coming from the workroom.