فصل 22

CHAPTER 22

KING ZARBOFF THE THIRD

PETER WAS FINDING it harder to breathe. The air inside the vessel, which had never been fresh, was now positively foul, stinking of the sweating bodies of men and boys confined for…How long? There was no way to tell, really. Peter had lost track of the hours as he’d drifted in and out of a restless sleep on the hard floor of his cell, surrounded by the sprawling forms of the other four boys. They had not been given anything to eat or drink. A few times they’d called out to the soldiers, asking for water, but their pleas had been ignored.

At least Ombra has left us alone, thought Peter.

With effort, he raised his head and looked through the bars into the next cell, where he saw Hook slumped against the far wall. The pirate’s face was shrouded in shadow; Peter couldn’t tell if Hook was asleep or staring back at him. Peter turned and looked toward the center of the room, where, beneath the swaying lamp—dimmer than it had been earlier—the soldiers reclined on benches and lay on the floor, apparently asleep.

Peter rested his head, staring up into the gloom, listened to the water rush past the hull of this strange ship. Once again he drifted off into a half-sleep…

Perhaps an hour later—perhaps six—Peter felt a nudge.

“Peter!” whispered James. “Wake up!”

“What?” said Peter.

“We’ve stopped,” said James.

Peter listened: the sound of rushing water had been replaced by that of waves lapping against the hull. It was accompanied by a gentle rocking motion. He felt a heavy thump as the vessel settled against something—a wharf? This jostled the other boys awake. Hook was on his feet, as were the soldiers. Peter heard a dull tapping on the hull from the outside. A section of the ceiling slid open. Brilliant sunlight blazed into the vessel, forcing the occupants to shield their eyes.

That will keep Ombra in his room, thought Peter, remembering how much the shadow creature hated light.

The soldiers positioned a ladder against the opening, then came over, drew their curved swords, and unlocked the cells. They barked orders, which neither the boys nor Hook understood, but it was clear from their gestures that it was time to go. Peter, still quite weak, leaned on James as he shuffled out of the cell. One of the soldiers pushed James away and tied a rope around Peter’s waist, tying the other end to his own waist.

“Looks like they don’t want you flying off,” said James.

Peter managed a wan smile. “Even if I wanted to,” he said, “I don’t think I could.”

Prodded by the soldiers, the boys and Hook moved to the ladder and climbed out, blinking in the brilliant sunshine. They got their first look at the strange vessel they’d been traveling in. It rode low in the water next to the wharf. Hook, the veteran seaman, stared in puzzlement at its sleek metal form, devoid of masts or sails, unlike any ship he’d ever seen. Then, pushed forward by their guards, the prisoners walked down the gangway to the wharf, where they were met by more soldiers clad in red tunics.

Peter looked around, trying to get his bearings. They were in a harbor, with a few ships docked nearby—the air smelled impossibly good. Peter recognized one of the ships: Le Fantome had carried Ombra to London from Mollusk Island, with Peter and Tink as stowaways. Beyond the harbor was an arid, brown, rocky coast, dotted with the occasional palm; above that rose a city, a jumble of twisting streets and dusty sun-baked buildings.

The soldiers gathered curiously around the prisoners, particularly interested in Hook, with his tattered clothes and flamboyant moustache. An officer barked an order, and the prisoners were herded off the wharf and onto a large wagon hitched to a pair of white horses.

Surrounded by soldiers, the wagon rumbled off the wharf and up the road into the city. As it made its way along narrow dirt streets crowded on each side by tumbledown homes, people clad in light-colored robelike garments emerged to watch. A few children tried to run alongside the wagon but were driven off by shouts and vicious kicks from the wagon guards. The older citizens glared but kept their distance. It was clear that there was no love lost between the residents of the city and the soldiers.

The wagon pushed through a crowded market street where the excited babble of many voices engaged in heated bargaining was replaced by silence as the wagon rolled past, the target of a hundred stares. On either side, almost close enough for Peter to touch, were stalls from which merchants sold all manner of goods—rugs, lamps, robes, ropes, pottery, knives, jewelry, cheese, dates, flatbread, and many other foods that the boys did not recognize.

“I’m hungry,” said Tubby Ted, mostly to himself.

The wagon turned a corner, emerging from the cramped and crooked dirt street onto a broad, straight, stone-paved avenue. It led to an impressive gated archway in a high stone wall, beyond which stood a gigantic building that dwarfed the puny hovels that made up the rest of the city. It was a hulking structure from which sprouted a forest of turrets and sharp-tipped spires that pierced the deep blue sky like daggers.

The wagon rumbled along the stones to the iron gate, which was guarded by more red-jacketed men armed with swords. The guards swung open the gate to let the wagon pass, then they heaved it closed. The prisoners were now in a large courtyard inside the castle wall. The wagon pulled up to a massive door flanked by still more soldiers. The door was opened; the guards prodded the boys and Hook to get off the wagon and enter.

They found themselves in a gigantic entry hall, likely the largest room any of them had ever stood in, with a vaulted ceiling higher than a ship’s mast. Windows set high in the side walls sent shafts of sunlight slanting across the vast, empty space. The prisoners were led along the length of this hall to two large doors decorated with a gold Roman numeral III.

A huge man, clad in a black robe and carrying a sword in his sash, stood in front of the doors. As the prisoners and their guards approached, he raised his right hand, folding his thumb over his little finger, with the other three fingers sticking up. He bellowed a phrase that ended with something Peter thought he recognized, though he couldn’t quite remember from where. The soldiers responded by raising three fingers and repeating the phrase. Then the huge man rapped thrice on the doors, which swung open as a pair. Peter felt the rope around his waist being untied; then, along with the other prisoners, he was shoved inside. The red-clad soldiers remained outside. The doors closed with an echoing bang.

The prisoners didn’t move, for at first the room appeared pitch black. But as Peter’s eyes adjusted, he saw the faint flicker of torches up ahead. The room felt quite large, though he could not make out walls or ceiling, only the torch-lit gloom giving way to blackness beyond. Imposing black-robed figures stood to either side. Peter’s eye caught the gleam of torchlight reflecting from their swords. These men stepped closer and shoved the prisoners forward. Peter went first, followed by the other boys, and finally, Hook. Peter saw now that the torches occupied four corners of a raised rectangular platform, which was surrounded by a dozen or so shadowy figures, large and small. At the center of the platform was a large chair—a throne, judging by its grandeur. Next to the throne a dark, bulky, twisting shape was coiled like a pile of thick rope.

A man in a long white robe occupied the throne. He had a round face framed by a long, unkempt, black beard.

His deep-set eyes glittered in the torchlight as he examined the prisoners, his gaze lingering longest on Peter and Hook. Then he turned his head and addressed a figure standing in the shadows. “Tell them,” he said, speaking English with an accent that Peter did not recognize.

“Yes, Your Highness King Zarboff the Third!” came the answer in a high-pitched voice. A boy stepped forward, his right arm raised in the three-finger salute. Peter gasped: he knew this boy. He’d been a schoolmate of Peter’s at St. Norbert’s.

James recognized him as well. “It’s Slightly!” he said, using the boy’s nickname from St. Norbert’s. His real name was Edward Slight.

“Slightly, what are you—” Peter began, shutting his mouth when he saw the warning—and the fear—in Slightly’s eyes.

“You are in the presence of His Highness King Zarboff the Third,” said Slightly, again raising three fingers. “You will address him as Your Highness King Zarboff the Third, and whenever you say his name you will raise your right hand with three fingers up, like this.”

“Tell them to do it,” said the king.

“His Highness wants you to do it,” said Slightly.

“Do what?” said James.

“Make the salute,” said Slightly.

“Now?” said James.

“Yes,” said Slightly, his tone urgent. “Now.”

Slowly, the five boys raised their right hands and held up three fingers each. Hook, glaring at Zarboff, kept his arms at his side. Zarboff regarded the pirate for a moment, his face expressionless, then said something in a language Peter did not understand. Immediately two of the black-robed men grabbed Hook and forced him to his knees. A third man grabbed Hook’s right arm and placed it on the throne platform, with the palm pressed down and the fingers spread. A fourth man stepped forward and drew his sword, holding its gleaming edge just above Hook’s hand.

“Explain to him,” said Zarboff.

“If you don’t make the salute,” said Slightly, “His Highness will take your thumb and little finger—then you will have no choice but to give the three finger salute.”

Hook stared at the blade hovering over his hand. “All right,” he said.

Zarboff nodded, and the soldiers released Hook, who stood and then slowly raised his hand in the three-finger salute.

“Good!” said Zarboff brightly, as though they were having tea. He pointed at Peter. “You are the one called Peter, yes?”

“Yes,” said Peter.

“You can fly, yes?” said Zarboff.

“Yes.”

“Show me,” said Zarboff.

“I’m not sure that I can,” said Peter. “I was injured by an…”

“SHOW ME!”

As Zarboff’s command echoed through the room, black-robed men moved toward Peter. “You’d better show him,” said Slightly.

“All right,” said Peter. He strained upward. Ordinarily, such an effort would have sent him shooting skyward. But in his weakened state it served only to make him feel a bit lighter. He strained again, feeling the blood pounding painfully in his forehead, but his feet did not leave the ground.

Zarboff said something in his own language. One of the black-robed men drew his sword.

“If you really can fly,” said Slightly, his voice low but urgent, “you had better do it right now.”

The swordsman stepped closer. Peter, eyes tight shut, took a deep breath and heaved upward with all his strength. Slowly, painfully, he began to rise—six inches, then a foot, then three feet, then six. He hovered there, his body clenched in pain, his face glistening with sweat, for fifteen seconds. Then he dropped to the floor, stumbling as he landed, so that James had to grab him.

Zarboff clapped his hands, delighted.

“You will teach me,” he said.

Peter, trying to catch his breath, did not answer.

“I said, You will teach me,” said Zarboff.

“Tell him you will teach him,” whispered Slightly.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” gasped Peter. “I will try to teach you. But there’s…I mean, to fly you must have…”

“Starstuff,” said Zarboff.

Peter’s head snapped up. Zarboff was grinning.

“I will have starstuff,” he said. “All the starstuff I need. You will find it for me.”

Peter frowned. What was he talking about?

“Yes, flying boy,” said Zarboff, smiling at Peter’s puzzlement. “You will help us. And to make sure you don’t fly away, I will keep your friends here. They will be my servants. This is a great honor.” He looked at Slightly. “It is a great honor, yes?”

“Yes, Your Highness King Zarboff the Third!” said Slightly, giving the salute.

“Bring the others forward,” said Zarboff.

Slightly gestured, and five small figures stepped into the torchlight. They were boys, and Peter knew them all—three about his age, known at St. Norbert’s as Curly, Tootles, and Nibs; and two younger ones known as the twins. Their faces reflected the same fear Peter saw in Slightly’s eyes.

Zarboff, addressing Peter, said, “These servants will teach your friends what they must do. If they learn well, they will have the honor of serving me. If they do not, they will have the honor of feeding Kundalini.”

At the sound of that name, the twins whimpered.

“Kundalini is not hungry now,” said Zarboff. He reached down and touched the dark shape next to his throne. The shape moved, and slowly a triangular head rose, the torchlight reflecting from two yellow eyes. Peter had seen snakes before; there were many on Mollusk Island. But he had never seen one half as massive as this.

“He ate a pig not too long ago,” said Zarboff, his fingertips gently, lovingly stroking the snake’s head. “He will not be hungry for a few days. If you and your friends behave, his next meal will be another pig. If not…”

Zarboff nodded toward Slightly and the other servant boys, all of whom were staring at the snake in terror. “They have seen what happens when a servant displeases me. It is not pleasant for the servant, although Kundalini likes it very much. He takes so long, it is as though he enjoys hearing the screams.”

Zarboff, still stroking the huge snake, smiled at Peter, his teeth bright white in the torchlight. “So you and your friends will cooperate, yes?”

“Yes,” said Peter hoarsely.

“Yes, what?” said Zarboff.

“Yes, Your Highness King Zarboff the Third.” He lifted his hand weakly, holding up three trembling fingers.