The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(35)
“No madman,” Blake murmured.
“Maybe he wandered off. But . . .” I scanned the square. Had it only been a strange nightmare? An odd dream? No—the old book was there, lying mangled on the cobbles in the shade of the gatehouse. As I knelt to pick up the cracked leather covers, Blake grasped the bars and rattled the portcullis. It barely moved, although I could hear the faint clanking of chain in the mechanisms.
“This gate would keep all but the smallest monsters out,” he said.
“Or in.”
“Safest that way. What have you got there?”
I showed him the lettering on the book cover, stamped into the skin. L’HISTOIRE DE LA VILLE D’YS.
“A history book?” He raised an eyebrow. “The work of a revisionist, perhaps?”
“That’s not funny. This book was priceless.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Song. It’s only that I can understand being enraged by history.” He knelt to pluck up a handful of scraps; they had drifted like fallen petals into the corner of the gatehouse. “You’re right, of course,” he said softly, sorting through the pieces. Gold leaf shone in the morning sun; the book had been lovingly illuminated. “It was beautiful work.”
“Don’t bother.” I opened my hand; the empty cover fell to the ground, a dead thing. “It’s beyond repair.”
“I know. But some of these are interesting. Look here.” He smoothed a crumpled piece of vellum against his thigh and tilted it toward me. “Seems like a diagram of the island.”
It was only a partial, but the design was still clear: the circular seawalls, the coil of the Grand Rue. But another path stretched across the city, leading to the sea wall and branching through the town. I traced the line with my finger. “Sewer system, maybe?”
“Perhaps. At the king’s palace in Honolulu, there were rumors of secret underground passages. But look here.” He tapped the paper; in the center of the castle, a dark circle was labeled LE TROU.
“Le trou . . .” I caught my breath when the meaning came to me. “The pit?”
Blake looked up at me through his lashes. “Maybe your madman . . . wasn’t. And look, one of the tunnels passes right by it.” He gave me a conspiratorial grin. “Shall we?”
“Shall we what?” I stared at him; there was a gleam in his eye. “Blake.”
“Come, Miss Song! We’ve got to wait for Crowhurst anyway. What else have you got planned?”
“What if there actually is a monster in the castle?”
“What if there’s actually a man in the pit?” His question brought me up short; he saw his victory in my hesitation. “I thought you loved adventure. But if you’re frightened, I’ll protect you.”
My eyes narrowed—was he patronizing me? Then again, I did have the gun; I could protect us both. “Let me see that.”
“Here.” He handed me the slip of paper; it trembled in my hand. The path was a shadowy line running underneath the entire city; dark squares showed entrances at the cathedral, the castle, and near the docks. It made sense—castles and sanctuaries usually had exit routes in case of invasion.
“It’s not very detailed,” I said dubiously. “It might take a bit of searching.”
“Then we’d best get started. Shall we try the cathedral first?” He started across the square to the pile of towering granite. I jogged to catch up, and when I did, I was glad we’d taken a closer look.
From across the square, the cathedral had looked like a typical French Gothic house of God, but closer up, it seemed the god it housed might have been Poseidon. The high arches were graceful as anemones and studded with gargoyles—no, not gargoyles, but sea creatures. Stone mermaids made downspouts out of shells held in their outstretched hands; urchins encrusted the archivolts, and deep-sea fish with enormous teeth took the role of grotesques in the galleries. Above it all, the great bronze bells gleamed, tucked into the towers like great pearls in giant oysters. But the processional doors set in the arched portals were heavy oak and banded with iron, and all three were shut tight. Around the side of the building, a smaller entrance was no different.
Blake wasn’t deterred. “Back to the docks, then.”
We took last night’s discarded torches from an empty fishing boat, and I stopped at the ship to slip a book of matches into my pocket. Then we crossed to the east side of the wharf. According to the map, the passage ran directly beneath a stone boathouse opposite the tavern. The building was decorated with old fishtails nailed over the doors, like trophies. They were huge, easily a yard across.
“Marlin?” Blake said with a quizzical glance.
“They don’t live this far north.” But what did? Sturgeon, of course, but the lobes of the caudal fin were each the same size. What was it Gwen had said? Strange fish in the water. “Whatever it was, it must have been huge.”
“No wonder the fishermen look so rough.”
We walked around the building; the side along the Grand Rue was devoted to a fish market, but it was still early, the gates closed, the fishermen abed. But there were bloody puddles of saltwater on the stones near the loading door, and we found it unbarred; the lucky trollers must have hauled their catch this way last night.
Stepping carefully on the slick stone, I followed Blake into the darkened market. The smell of sour brine tickled my nose, and my breath whitened in the gloom; it was even colder inside than out. I eased the door shut and lit the torches; orange firelight waltzed arm in arm with the shadows.