The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,188
or threatened – as much. And however little he liked it, he knew that he would call upon the dragon if it were a question of dying down here, alone in the cold dark.
Longinus had spoken of men and women driven to seek shelter underground, and as they progressed farther into the journey, their course continuing ever downward, Quare began to see occasional evidence of it: rubbish left behind, scraps of old clothing and rags, the bones of small animals, the remains of fires. Markings on the walls made with charcoal or simply scratched into the stone: crude drawings of human and animal figures, simple declarations, names, initials, dates … and symbols he did not recognize, like letters in an unknown language. But he did not see a living soul.
After some time – how long, Quare could not have guessed – Longinus drew to a halt at the entrance to yet another cavern. Looking back at Quare, he raised a finger to his lips for silence, then motioned for him to approach.
‘We are not alone,’ he whispered as Quare came up.
Quare glanced behind him, but saw only the shadows thrown by their torches.
‘You must let me do the talking,’ Longinus continued. ‘Say nothing unless you are spoken to, and then be brief and respectful in your replies. Comply at once with whatever is asked of you. Under no circumstances draw your sword or any other weapon, unless I draw first. Is that clear?’
‘Yes. But should we not don our masks?’
‘No. My face is known here, though not my true identity.’
‘But—’
‘Shh,’ he hissed. ‘This is not the time for questions or arguments. I have broken no laws in bringing you here, but I have stretched certain … understandings. I had hoped to avoid discovery, but like so many hopes, it appears to have been futile. So be it. In a way, Mr Quare, you are fortunate indeed. First, to see what few surface-dwellers have ever seen. And second, to do so in my presence, for otherwise you would almost certainly be dead.’
‘If this is fortune,’ Quare replied, ‘I could do with less of it.’
‘’At could be arranged,’ came a voice from out of the darkness ahead, speaking in the thickest Cockney that Quare had ever heard, so that it seemed almost a foreign language even to his London-trained ear.
Quare put a hand to his sword, but Longinus grasped his wrist, preventing him from drawing. ‘Be still, sir!’
Now a second voice spoke, this one from behind. ‘’At’s right. Ain’t no cause ter be all berligerent like. We don’t mean no ’arm to them what means us no ’arm. We Morecockneyans is a peaceful folk.’
‘More … what?’ Quare asked, pulling free of Longinus’s grasp.
‘Cockneyans,’ came the first voice. ‘Morecockneyans, on account of ’ow we’re more cockney than the blasted Cockney.’
The second voice laughed. ‘We’re the original article, yer might say – been down ’ere since before the Great Fire, we ’ave. This is our kingdom, your lordships, and you may pass ’ere by our leave or not at all. Now, put out them torches and let’s ’ave a look at yer.’
‘Put out—’
‘Do as he says,’ Longinus interrupted. ‘They have become so habituated to dark that even the poor light of these torches blinds them.’ So saying, he let his torch fall to the ground and stamped it out. ‘Go on, Mr Quare. We’re perfectly safe, I assure you, as long as we behave in a manner befitting guests.’
‘If you think I’m going to— ow!’ Quare dropped his torch as what felt like a hornet’s sting pierced the back of his hand. In the seconds before Longinus stamped out the torch, he saw an angry red welt rising there. Then a darkness fell that was beyond any darkness he had ever experienced; it seemed to require another word entirely. He fumbled for his weapons, then froze as the tip of a blade pricked his throat.
‘Quare, is it?’ queried the voice that had laughed. It was not laughing now. ‘You’d best listen to your mate, Mr Quare.’
‘Gorblimey, if it ain’t the Grey Ghost, old Grimalkin ’isself!’ exclaimed the first voice meanwhile. ‘It’s been an age. I ’eard tell you’d retired.’
‘I had.’
‘A bit old ter be gallervantin’ about down ’ere, ain’t yer?’
‘No older than you, Cornelius.’
The voice chuckled. ‘Sharp ears for an old man.’
‘My blade’s grown no duller, either. Hello, Starkey.’
Quare felt the blade at his throat withdraw.
‘Grimalkin,’ came the reply. ‘Up ter yer old tricks again, are yer?’