The Midnight Palace (Niebla 2)

Ian examined the upper reaches of the hall and noticed a metal walkway running around it, about fifteen metres above the ground. From this a narrow gangway connected to the glass chandelier – just a small footbridge, probably intended for the maintenance and cleaning of the structure.

‘We’ll go up there and take the person down,’ Ian explained.

‘One of us should wait here, to attend to their wounds,’ Seth said. ‘I think it should be you.’

Ian studied his friend carefully.

‘Are you sure you want to go up there alone?’

‘I’m dying to do it …’ replied Seth. ‘Wait here. And don’t move.’

Ian watched his friend approach the staircase that led to the upper levels of Jheeter’s Gate. As soon as the shadows had engulfed him and the sound of his footsteps had grown fainter, he scanned the surrounding darkness.

Gusts of wind from the tunnels whistled in his ears and sent fragments of debris tumbling across the ground. Ian looked up again and tried in vain to recognise the figure hanging in the air. He couldn’t bear the thought that it might be Isobel, Siraj or Sheere … Suddenly a fleeting reflection seemed to appear on the surface of the puddle at his feet, but when Ian looked down, there was nothing.

JAWAHAL DRAGGED SHEERE THROUGH the corridor of the stationary train until he reached the front car, which preceded the engine. An intense orange light shone through the cracks in the heavy door, and Sheere could hear the furious sound of a boiler raging inside. She felt the temperature rise steeply around her and all her pores opened at the touch of the scorching air.

‘What’s in there?’ she asked in alarm.

Jawahal closed his fingers round her arm and pulled her towards him.

‘The fire machine,’ he replied, opening the door and pushing the girl inside. ‘This is my home and my prison. But very soon all that will change, thanks to you, Sheere. After all these years we have found each other again. Isn’t this what you have always wanted?’

Sheere had to protect her face from the blast of heat as she peered at the engine through her fingers. In front of her a gigantic machine made up of large metal boilers joined together by an endless coil of pipes and valves was roaring as if it were about to explode. From the joints of the monstrous device came clouds of steam and gas. On an iron panel bearing a set of pressure valves and gauges Sheere recognised the carved figure of an eagle rising majestically from the flames. Beneath the bird were a few words carved in an alphabet she didn’t recognise.

‘The Firebird,’ said Jawahal, next to her. ‘My alter ego.’

‘My father built this machine,’ murmured Sheere. ‘You have no right to use it. You’re nothing but a thief and a murderer.’

Jawahal observed her thoughtfully then licked his lips.

‘What kind of a world have we built when not even the ignorant can be happy?’ he asked. ‘Wake up, Sheere.’

The girl turned to look at Jawahal with disdain.

‘You killed him,’ she said, hatred burning in her eyes. Jawahal distorted his features into a grotesque g

rimace. Seconds later Sheere realised that he was laughing. Jawahal pushed her gently against the scorching wall of the car and pointed an accusing finger at her.

‘Stay there and don’t move.’

Sheere watched Jawahal approach the throbbing machinery and place his palms on the burning metal of the boilers. His hands adhered to the metal and there was the stench of charred skin and a ghastly hissing sound as the flesh burnt. Jawahal slowly opened his mouth and seemed to imbibe the clouds of steam floating in the locomotive. Then he turned and smiled at the horrified girl.

‘Are you scared of playing with fire? Let’s play something else then. We can’t disappoint your friends.’

Without waiting for a reply, Jawahal left the machine and moved towards the back of the car, where he picked up a large wicker basket. He drew close to Sheere, a disturbing smile on his lips.

‘Do you know which animal is most like man?’

Sheere shook her head.

‘I see that the education your grandmother has given you is poorer than I expected. A father simply can’t be replaced …’

He opened the basket and plunged his fist inside, his eyes glittering maliciously. When his hand emerged, it was holding the sinuous shining body of a snake. An asp.

‘This is the animal that most resembles humans. It crawls and sheds its skin when it needs to. It will steal the young of other species from their own nests and eat them but is incapable of confronting them in a clean battle. Its speciality, however, is to seize every possible opportunity to deliver its lethal bite. The asp has only enough poison for one bite and it needs hours to recover, but whoever is bitten is condemned to a slow and certain death. As the poison penetrates the veins, the heart of the victim beats slower and slower, until eventually it stop: even in its vicious nature, this small beast has a certain fondness for poetry, just like human beings, although the asp, unlike man, would never attack its own kind. That’s a mistake, don’t you think? Maybe that’s why they’ve ended up as street entertainment for fakirs and spectators – they aren’t quite on a par with the king of creation.’

Jawahal held the snake in front of Sheere and the girl pressed herself against the wall. He smiled with satisfaction as soon as he saw the look of terror in her eyes.